The Ties That Bind
by Kyra4
Summary: Someone's got it in for Draco Malfoy. Nearly two decades ago he killed her mate. Now she has a secret weapon and fully intends to return the favor... with interest. DHr future fic, sequel to "You Gotta Breathe" and "Sometimes When We Touch" WIP
1. Prologue

Title: **The Ties That Bind**

Summary: Someone's got it in for Draco Malfoy. Nearly two decades ago he killed her mate. Now she has a secret weapon and fully intends to return the favor… _with interest_. D/Hr future-fic, sequel to "You Gotta Breathe" and "Sometimes When We Touch"

Standard Chapter 1 Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and any recognizable places belong to JKR, not to me. I am not benefiting financially in any way from writing Harry Potter Fanfiction. To the contrary, it takes time _away_ from my coursework, and from original writing that I maybe _could_ benefit financially from. Gah! What can I say, I'm just hooked.

(A/N: Welcome to "The Ties That Bind"! This is the sequel to "Sometimes When We Touch", which in turn was a sequel to "You Gotta Breathe". So if you've just stumbled onto this story I would highly recommend reading those two first, otherwise you might find yourself more than a little lost! This story should be, like YGB and Sometimes before it, a fairly long, multi-chapter saga- probably 15+ chapters. No promises on how frequently I'll be updating the new story, though. I'm on Spring Break at the moment and have a little bit of leisure time for a few days, but then it's back to the grind, and I gotta say, grad school is more or less kicking my A$$. So I'm thanking you in advance for your patience :-) This is a Draco / Hermione "future-fic", meaning that they are adults, married, and parents. If reading about these characters as adults, married, and parents is a turn-off to you, which I accept it is to some people, this is your cue to hit the back button. In this story, Draco and Hermione have two adolescent children. Obviously, these are original characters. The main villain in the story is an OC too. If reading about original characters is a turn-off to you, which I accept it is to some people, this is your cue to hit the back button. Otherwise, thanks for reading and enjoy the ride!)

00000

It was a tearful goodbye between mother and son.

It wasn't that they had never been parted before- the young man, now seventeen and a legal adult in the wizarding world, had been going off to school every year since he'd turned eleven years old, and the school he'd attended, Durmstrang Institute, had been no short distance away. This was different from a run-of-the-mill, end-of-holidays school sendoff, though. Hugely different… and they both knew it.

He wasn't going to school. He had finished his schooling, with top marks in his class, just a few short weeks ago. He had learned everything he needed to know, both from his Durmstrang instructors and from his own mother during the holidays. Now it was time to put all of that learning- seven years (and more, if one counted the lessons he'd been receiving at home from earliest childhood)- to the test. It was time to do what he'd been told he must do, what he'd been trained to do, practically from infancy.

He had a task to complete, and complete it he would- or die trying.

The latter was a distinct possibility too, and they both knew this also. But even so, neither was prepared to call off the quest- not the son, for whom this was a crucial matter of family honor, nor the mother, even though tears were now streaming openly down her usually cold and guarded face.

She loved her son, inasmuch as she was capable of loving anyone, and she feared for his safety, but still he had to go. She had no illusions about that because above and beyond being her child, he was a weapon; a weapon she had been carefully honing for seventeen years. He was a tool of revenge and her thirst for vengeance went deeper- far deeper- into her soul than even her maternal instincts could penetrate.

Still, there was an uncommon tenderness in her hand as she raised it to caress his cheek- (those fine, chiseled, aristocratic features, so very like his father's that they sometimes made her breath catch painfully in her throat)- and in her voice as she spoke her final farewell.

"You will be careful, darling? You know how powerful he is."

"I will, mother," he said, gently disengaging. He was years past the age when he had used to allow her to kiss and pet him to her heart's content. "I'll be in touch, too. Don't worry- I don't intend to fail. I have all the tools I need. I _am_ going to remove this stain from our name, and I'll see you when it's done. Right?"

"Of course." She tried to smile, but failed. "It's what you were born for."

"I know," he said quietly, dropped a kiss on her forehead, turned away, walked the short distance to edge of their property (she had come most of the way down from the house with him)- and, stepping over the boundary where their heavily warded lands ended, he squared his shoulders without ever looking back… and Disapparated.

00000

"Ugghh, nooo," Draco protested, rolling onto his stomach and burrowing his head beneath his pillow… for all that he knew it was a futile effort. "It's Saturday!"

Hermione swatted at his boxer-clad bum with her own pillow. "_Must_ we do this every single weekend?" she asked, in a tone that was half exasperation, half amusement. "Your lie-in day is _Sun_day, as you perfectly well know. Now get _up_, before I sic Seth on you."

He stiffened visibly at that. "You wouldn't," he said, his voice still muffled by the pillow.

"Oh, I think you know I would," she answered teasingly, "if you're dead-set on doing this the hard way. I'll just nip out and get him right-"

"Like hell you will," Draco growled, rolling onto his back and sitting straight up all in one quick, fluid movement. He narrowed his eyes at her.

Hermione, who'd been on her way to the bedroom door, clad identically to her husband, that is to say, in a pair of _his_ boxers and an overlarge castoff tee-shirt, also his- felt a sensation which had become all too familiar to her over the years- as if the air around her were suddenly… gelling; solidifying. It was pushing back against her, gently but inexorably, forcing her away from the door and back toward the bed.

She whirled to face her husband, and now it felt as if she had a strong wind at her back. She dug in her heels against it.

"Draco, stop it this instant!" she demanded in a temper, a wave of color suffusing her cheeks. "You know I hate it when you use your magic against me!"

Draco arched an eyebrow laconically. "Don't be dramatic, Granger- as if I'd ever actually use it _against_ you. I just happen to think you're bloody gorgeous when you're pissed off… especially just after you've gotten out of bed and your hair is absolutely everywhere-" he held out his arms to her and the "wind" suddenly gusted, blowing her forward and right into them; he wrapped them around her and rolled with her, swapping places so that now she was the one who was supine on the bed, he straddling her and leaning down so close that their breath mingled- (she was panting slightly with the effort of resisting his magic)- and their noses nearly touched.

"It makes me want to _do things to you_," he finished- and yes, his arousal was evident enough, both in the darker, gunmetal-grey color his eyes had gone and in a certain other part of his anatomy, considerably lower down on his lean frame, where their bodies were currently pressed together.

He angled his head and brought his lips down to hers in a hungry, demanding kiss, simultaneously nudging her thighs apart with his knee. Hermione relaxed beneath him, apparently releasing the anger she'd been nursing just a moment ago, and melted into the kiss, wrapping her slim, bare legs around his waist and causing him to groan into her mouth.

And then the doorbell rang.

Draco reluctantly tore his lips away from Hermione's and gave another low moan- this one of acute disappointment. From a few feet down the hall another bedroom door opened with a bang, a young voice shouted "I'll get it!" and footsteps pounded away down the hallway at a dead run. Hermione disengaged, releasing him from her leg-lock and rolling out from under him, pausing long enough to press a brief kiss on his forehead.

"The Potters are here," she said unnecessarily, flung open her wardrobe, and quickly began to dress.

"So I gather," Draco replied rather brusquely- inclined to sulk just a little bit longer.

But the inclination didn't last long. It vanished the moment Hermione turned around and pulled a quick face at him, still throwing on her clothes in a haphazard rush. Her color was high and her eyes aglow with pleasure and anticipation. It never ceased to amaze him how excited she could still become by such a relatively mundane thing as a visit from Harry- it wasn't as if she only saw him once in a great while; the two families converged twice a month, at least- and yet she always reacted in the same intensely joyful way that never failed to tug at his heart. For a woman of such vast and complex intellect, Hermione really knew how to take pleasure from the simple things in life. Her husband, her children, a weekend visit from her best friend.

She was so beautiful when she was alight like this. So wholesome, so deep-down good. _Far_ too good for the likes of him. For about the billionth time, Draco found himself wondering what he had ever done to deserve the love of this woman.

That didn't stop him, though, from pulling a face right back at her. "You go on," he said then, getting finally, reluctantly, to his feet. "I've got to take a quick shower first. A _cold_ quick shower."

She crossed over to him and reached up both-handed, twining her fingers through his soft pale hair and pulling his face down to hers, planting a lingering little kiss on the corner of his mouth. She smiled, her lips curving against his skin. "Don't be too disappointed," she whispered. "You _know_ you've got a rain check coming, don't you?"

"You better believe it," he said, squeezing her in a brief embrace. Her feet left the floor for a heartbeat or two. Then he pulled gently away and gave her a playful smack on the backside. "Tell them I'll be out in ten minutes, go on. And Hermione?" he added a few seconds later, as her hand closed around the door handle. She looked back at him, a quizzical expression on her face. "I love you," he said.

It didn't strike him odd at the moment, as she blew him a kiss and vanished through the bedroom door, but later he would look back on those words, wondering why he _hadn't _felt a little thrill of foreboding at the time, why he hadn't seen them for the omen he later came to believe they'd been. It wasn't that it was unusual for him to tell her that he loved her- once upon a time it had been, but that had been a long time ago and now he told her almost every day. It was unusual, however, for him to use such strong parting words when she was merely leaving the room for another area of the house and he'd be seeing her again inside of fifteen minutes.

Later on he became convinced that somehow he'd known when he'd spoken those words, known deep down in his subconscious, that this morning was different from all the hundreds that had preceded it in his married life; different in a deep and fundamental way.

It was really the last peaceful morning before the storm hit- before their lives started to spin out of control, before everything went completely and appallingly and disastrously and heart achingly wrong.


	2. The End of Happily Ever After

"And Draco," Hermione said in a mock-serious tone of voice, her hands planted firmly on her hips, "no cheating."

Draco, down on one knee in the grass, paused in the act of lacing up his top-of-the-line dragonhide Quidditch boots and glanced up at her, shooting her a quick rakish grin. His white-blond fringe fell forward, mostly obscuring his eyes, but Hermione caught the wink he threw her way nonetheless.

"You wound me, Hermione," he said gravely. "My own wife-"

"I _mean_ it, Draco! I know how you get when it's Harry against you! But you have to set an example for the children. No mucking about with the weather, or-"

Draco gave an amused snort as he straightened up once more. "Mucking about with the weather, indeed. As if I could even do such a-"

Hermione actually stamped her foot. "You _know_ I know you can!" she practically shouted. "So keep it clean!"

"All _right_," he finally placated her, though he couldn't help himself grinning even as he spoke. It was so much _fun _to get her all worked up. "All right. I'm going to fly circles around Scarhead, fair and square. Just you watch, oh ye of little faith, just you watch."

He pulled on his gloves, then used one gloved hand to shove his hair back, out of his eyes. Still grinning like a Cheshire cat, he said, "what, don't I get a kiss for luck?"

Hermione glared at him a moment longer, then abruptly threw her hands into the air. It was a gesture of frustration, but it was belied by the expression on her face; she had, however reluctantly, broken out into a smile of her own.

"Merlin, why can't I ever stay mad at you?"

"Because," Draco said, catching her by the shoulders and pulling her in for a kiss, "you worship and adore me utterly-" he let his lips graze her earlobe as he finished in a whisper, "knowing as you do that the feeling is more than mutual."

Still smiling, Hermione closed her eyes, leaned her forehead briefly against his shoulder and inhaled, drinking in his morning scent of clean leather and soap… and then a chorus of shouts broke out, causing them to jerk apart almost as guiltily as teenagers caught snogging in the Hogwarts corridors after curfew.

There was twelve-year-old Seth's unmistakable "Yecch!"

A couple of cat-calls that could have been Harry or either one of the Weasley twins-

A joyful shout of "Get a room, you two!" that hailed from whichever twin wasn't busy whistling-

And above and behind it all, fifteen-year-old Ronnelle ranting wildly, "-_always _embarrass me like this, just _completely _humiliate-"

Draco's hands clenched into fists. "Just _why_ are those bloody twins here again?" he growled.

Hermione chuffed a soft laugh. "They have every right to want to play with their nephews," she said, referring to Harry and Ginny's sons, who were almost the exact same ages as Ronnelle and Seth- "and anyway, you'll get one of them for your team, so it'll be four on four."

"And that's supposed to be a _good _thing, is it?"

Now she laughed outright, shaking her head and turning away to join Ginny in the stands- it being the summer holidays, the two-family Quidditch party had walked from Draco and Hermione's Hogsmeade home up to the deserted Hogwarts pitch for the day. Ordinarily, Ginny would have been right in the thick of things herself- she was still as athletic, and nearly as feisty, as she had been back in her school days- but, as she was currently enormously pregnant, she was relegated today to onlooker status along with Hermione, who had never once felt the faintest compunction even to attempt to play Quidditch, and never would.

Hermione welcomed the company.

The two women sat side by side in the Gryffindor stands (old habits die hard) and watched as the teams of four squared off in the center of the field. Harry was directly facing Draco; Matthew, who had just completed his fourth year at Hogwarts- Gryffindor, of course- facing Ronnelle, who'd just completed her fifth, in Ravenclaw- (though a year younger, Matt had, over just the past several weeks or so, experienced a much anticipated growth-spurt that had given him at least three solid inches over her- and though they'd played together since infancy, both seemed, at the moment, to be looking anywhere but into each other's eyes; Matt in particular was staring straight down at his feet, which he was scuffing on the ground in what Hermione thought the most endearing awkward-adolescent fashion.) Next, the youngest Potter on the field, Chris, squared off opposite Seth- both having just completed their second year of school, both in Gryffindor, and fast friends. Finally the Weasley twins faced off, though Hermione, from this distance, couldn't tell which one was which. Ginny saw her squinting and said, with easy assurance, "Draco's got George today."

The four pairs shook hands, and then each player swung a leg over his or her broom. The makeshift teams, six players short of regulation between them, would consist of a Keeper, a Seeker, and a single Beater and Chaser each. Seth, Hermione could tell even from this distance, was virtually thrumming with ecstatic anticipation of the game to come- this had been his idea, after all, eagerly suggested the last time both families had been together, for dinner at the Potters' home some three weeks previous, and he'd been eating, sleeping and breathing it ever since.

Then the eight players on the field shot like rockets into the bright summer-morning sky to the sound of Ginny and Hermione's cheers, and the "battle" was joined.

00000

After a day so full of fun and exertion, and knowing that they had a lazy Sunday morning ahead of them, just begging for a lie-in, their sleep should have been peaceful and deep. One thing Draco had certainly _not _expected was for Hermione to wake up at three in the morning yelling bloody murder, in the throes of the first night terror to grip her in over a decade.

He nearly fell off the bed, so great was his shock and disorientation as he bolted upright, yanked violently from his own slumber by her frantic, breathless cries. It only took him a moment, though, to get a handle on the situation- after all, this had at one time been a fairly common occurrence… though he'd thought that time had been all but buried long ago.

"Hermione," he croaked now, his voice gravelly from sleep. "_Hermione!_ Shit! _Lumos!_"

Profoundly thankful for the umpteenth time that their bedroom was completely soundproofed to the rest of the house- they could hear out but the children could not hear in- he grabbed his thrashing, screaming wife by the shoulders and pulled her into his arms, crushing her to his chest, stilling her struggles as he repeated her name time and time again- "Hermione. Hermione. Sweetheart, wake up. Hermione. C'mon, love. You're safe; I've got you- I'm not letting go. Hermione. Hermione, _stop!_ Wake up… wake up… wake up…"

She was starting to come out of it, but slowly, slowly. The panicked screams gradually gave way to a torrent of wracking, nearly convulsive sobs, and her struggles subsided until, rather than pushing desperately against him as she had been initially, she finally allowed herself to collapse into his chest, her hands fisting tightly in the soft, sleep-warm fabric of his shirt. It was several moments more before he could begin to distinguish words among her tears.

"No… God… please… nuh… _please_ don't… I c… c-han't breathe… I can't… _Draco!_"

It was enough to make him heartsick. Merlin, why? _Why_ had the nightmare returned after all these years?

"Shhh," he whispered into her hair, gathering her still closer, holding her as tightly as he could without hurting her, starting to rock her gently. "I'm here. Hermione. I'm right here. Come back. Come back to me, love." He tangled one hand in her sweat-dampened hair, stroking it soothingly as she continued to calm until the sobs were reduced to hiccups, the convulsions to tremors.

At last she released her death hold on his shirt, letting go of the scrunched and wrinkled fabric in order to wrap her arms around him, and she raised her head, even if only marginally, even if only for a second, before burying her sticky-hot, tear streaked face in his neck. She struggled with her breathing then, sucking in several rapid, hitching gasps before managing to regulate herself somewhat. Draco kept stroking her hair and shushing her throughout.

"Draco," she whispered a long time later, and he could tell that she was awake now- she was actually addressing him, rather than simply crying out his name in the grip of a terrible dream. She burrowed her face a little deeper into his neck; he could feel fresh tears seeping from her eyes. "Draco?"

His arms, still wrapped around her, tightened convulsively. "I'm right here," he murmured, "you know I am. What happened, love? Where did you go?"

"I-" she gulped a deep, unsteady breath; swallowed hard. "It was… the corridor… sixth year… I was… was… up against… that _wall_ again…"

"Oh, God," he said hoarsely, the words nearly wrenched from his throat. It _hurt_ him even to remember walking around the bend in that corridor, down in the bowels of the school, and finding her there, more than half-dead, in the aftermath of a monstrous, brutal attack. And if the memory hurt _him_… then Merlin, what was it doing to _her?_

"I'm sorry, bookworm," he whispered, "I'm so sorry." He slipped a hand under her chin and tilted her face up, compelling her to look at him. Her dark eyes were still leaking tears, and the expression in them was… God, it was so _bleak_…

He kissed her forehead; it felt hot, feverish. She was still shaking. "You're safe now, love," he whispered, in an attempt at comforting her. "You do know that? Nothing's going to hurt you again, I swear it."

But she shook her head, simultaneously raising her hands to knuckle her tears away, _looking _sixteen again in that moment, as if the nightmare had actually regressed her somehow, stripping away all the happy years that had passed between the… events of their sixth and seventh years at Hogwarts, and now. And Merlin, she was beautiful, and God in heaven, this was breaking his heart.

"No," she whispered wretchedly, "no, Draco, something's wrong. I can feel it, something is… I have to check on the children!"

And _that_ was when he felt the first prickles of foreboding- a sick, swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach at even the ghost of a thought that his children could be in danger. He reached out immediately, reflexively, with his magic, briefly touching their sleeping minds, reassuring himself that all was well even as Hermione pulled away from him, getting to her feet and padding across to their bedroom door. It wasn't something he would normally have done, though it was easy enough that it hardly bore thinking about; he usually respected their privacy more than that, and with Seth in particular, now that the boy was nearly thirteen years old, and had definitely begun to notice girls over the past few months, Draco actually would rather _not _know what he was dreaming about. He had made the mistake several months ago of touching one of Ronnelle's dreams out of simple curiosity, and had ended up barely able to meet her eyes for a week. Plus, he'd had to deal with suppressing the sudden, strong impulse to hunt down Matt Potter and tear him apart bare-handed… even though he knew, in his rational mind, that Matt was a perfectly decent and respectable boy, and could hardly be held responsible for the things that Ronnelle- his one-time playmate- was dreaming about him.

Nothing awkward tonight, though. Seth was chasing the Snitch. Draco smiled despite himself, despite the situation.

"Hermione, it's all right," he said, unfolding himself from the tangled bedclothes in order to follow her; "I just touched them, they're fine."

She paused at the door, turned back to face him. Her expression was hunted; haunted. "I have to _see_," she said.

"All right," he said, trying to keep his voice low and soothing, "all right, love. Hold up, I'll come with you."

00000

They checked Seth first, and then Ronnelle. They stood for a long time in silence, just inside each bedroom door, watching their children sleep peacefully; Seth curled on his side, Ronelle on her back, arms flung wide, the tumult of her hair (identical to her father's in color- or lack thereof- but with all of her mother's thickness and wave) fanned out over her pillow, gleaming faintly in the dim light that shone in around her parents from the hall. These had been their chosen sleeping positions since infancy.

Both were breathing deeply, regularly. Nothing was amiss.

That seemed to be small consolation, though, to Hermione.

Draco had hoped she would be calmed by the undeniable proof that all was well in the Malfoy home, but no such luck. Her body was taut and trembling as she stood there with his arm around her shoulder, holding her snug against his side. She hardly seemed comforted at all. He had to exert some force to draw her away, steering her down the hallway, now, in the direction of the kitchen. Left to her own devices, she would likely have stood there and watched her daughter sleep until the sun came up. It creeped him out a little, actually. He hadn't seen her this badly shaken since… well, since before Ronnelle had been born, anyway.

In the kitchen he made her a cup of hot, sweet tea laced with Dreamless Sleep Potion, then led her back the bedroom and tucked her in, her eyes already growing heavy from the tea's narcotic effect. He himself lay awake for a long, long time, though, after her breathing had deepened and evened out, becoming as peaceful and rhythmic as Seth and Ronnelle's had been… and when he finally _did _drift away, he found that now his own dreams were dark and troubled. He was searching for Hermione, searching frantically through what seemed to be a thick fog; stumbling and bumbling, disoriented, shouting her name over and over, his voice cracking with desperation, getting no response. Absurdly positive that she was in mortal danger, yet was deliberately, stubbornly, refusing to answer because she was angry with him. He woke with a start as the first pale light of dawn crept into the room, drenched in a cold sweat, with his heart pounding in his ears and her name on the tip of his tongue- he had to clamp down on the urge to yell it out loud.

"Bloody _hell_," he whispered, looking around himself- he'd shot up into a sitting position- and raking a hand through his silver-white hair, shoving it out of his face. He caught sight of Hermione beside him, still deeply ensconced in her drug-induced sleep- he doubted she'd wake until ten at least. With a long, uneven sigh he settled himself back down beside her, pulling her warm, pliant, sleep-heavy body into his arms, curling himself around her, burying his nose in the fragrant tumult of her hair. Merlin, what was happening to both of them? He didn't know, but he sure as hell didn't like it.

Two disturbing dreams in one night… Hermione's deeply ingrained sense that something was wrong, her refusal to be comforted… if he were the kind of man who put a lot of stock in omens, well, this hardly boded well. But Draco was not the kind of man who put a lot of stock in omens. He preferred reason to superstition, just like his wife. And reasonably, what sort of danger could they be in? They had a peaceful life. A home in Hogsmeade with all the normal wards and protections, relatively ordinary jobs; he worked for the Ministry as an Unspeakable, occasionally offering his services to other departments as a test subject for new potions or spells- Hermione was less than thrilled about that particular aspect of his work, but it really was harmless. His incredibly powerful magic rendered him more or less indestructible, after all. Hermione, for her part, taught three days a week up at the school, though right now she was on summer holiday, just like the kids. They didn't have any enemies he could name off the top of his head, and hadn't, so far as he knew, since before they had graduated Hogwarts themselves.

And returning for just a second to the fact of his extraordinary magic- all right, imagine for a moment, just for the sake of argument, that someone out there _was_ wishing them ill; even planning something, perhaps. There was no type of onslaught, either physical or magical, that Draco didn't feel more than equal to repelling. His arms tightened automatically around his sleeping wife. Let someone _try _to hurt his family.

Let them just try.

By the time Draco got through with them, they'd be wishing they'd never been born; they'd be praying for the release of death.

But that wasn't going to happen, he assured himself once more, as Hermione made a small, muffled, sleepy sound and snuggled even more closely against him. Of course it wasn't. Because surely if there was anyone out there who bore a grudge against him or his family, he would _know_ about it. Wouldn't he?

_Wouldn't _he?

00000

(A/N: Just as aside for the curious... Ronnelle is not a name I made up for this fiction. I went to high school with a Ronnelle. It's a rare name, like Kyra, but it _is_ a "real" one.)


	3. Life Debt

The entire horrific chain of events began, not too surprisingly, with Seth.

The boy was trouble. Well no, that wasn't exactly fair. He wasn't a bad kid. But he was twelve-going-on-thirteen, he was on his summer holidays and so had, as far as his parents were concerned, far too much time on his hands, and he had a demonstrated knack for finding mischief. Not to mention a best friend, from whom he was practically inseparable, who had if anything an even greater inborn ability for creating havoc than Seth himself. Though they'd only completed two years of schooling so far, Seth Malfoy and Chris Potter had already earned a reputation among the school's faculty and staff that easily rivaled that of Fred and George Weasley, or even James Potter and Sirius Black in their day. Argus Filch had finally retired his position as Hogwarts caretaker at the end of Chris and Seth's first year of school, and it was said that most of the credit for this long and, by the student body, _eagerly_ anticipated event rested squarely on them.

So, boys were bound to be boys.

And they were not about to let this beautiful sunny summer day go to waste.

Seth was up with the sun. He _did_ try to tell his parents he was going out to play with Chris Potter- really, he did. He knocked repeatedly at their bedroom door and was puzzled by the lack of response (never guessing, of course, that his mother was, to all intents and purposes, drugged- and his father, utterly taxed by the entire episode, was sleeping the dead, black sleep of the truly exhausted) but hardly troubled enough to postpone his own plans.

Not such plans as these. Chris had had it on good authority- one of his uncles, did, after all, work with dragons- that a little Welsh Green had recently taken up residence deep in the Forbidden Forest. Well naturally, the two boys couldn't just let a rumor like _that_ lie- they were bound and determined to see for themselves. Grabbing his broom, Seth headed out to meet his best friend.

00000

Draco shot into a sitting position, wide awake all at once and with his heart pounding in his ears. It was half past eight and the room was flooded with morning sunshine; all should have been right with the world, and yet…

Something was very wrong; he knew it as clearly and as completely as he'd known something was wrong all those years ago when he'd awoken in his Head Boy bed at Hogwarts with all his instincts screaming _DANGER_, to discover that his bastard of a father had somehow gained entrance to Hermione's room, intending to kidnap her, torture her, rape her, kill her. It was the same now; someone he loved was in mortal peril; there was not the shadow of a doubt in his mind.

It wasn't Hermione this time, though, obviously; she was still sleeping soundly beside him. And so, for the second time in under twelve hours, Draco reached out to touch his children's minds.

Ronnelle was still fast asleep- a deep and dreamless sleep, thankfully. And Seth-

Oh, holy _fuck. Seth._

That was his last coherent thought- if that could be called a coherent thought. It was more coherent than any that followed it over the next couple of minutes, though; that much was for sure. His body was on the move before his mind could do anything more than simply repeat, in stunned horror, _Seth- oh my fucking God, SETH-!_

In a matter of seconds he was out of bed, clad only in a pair of jersey-knit pajama bottoms and a plain white tee-shirt- and was across the bedroom floor and literally hurling himself out the open window. The master bedroom was on the ground floor- in point of fact, the Malfoy residence _had_ no upper floor- so the fall to the grass below would not have damaged him in any event- but that was beside the point, because he didn't fall.

His broom was there, hovering just outside, exactly as he had trusted it would be. He'd reached for it with his mind- more of a deep, instinctual pulse of magic than an actual, coherent thought; and as soon as he'd launched himself into the open air, it was there beneath him. He wrapped both legs and arms immediately around it, lying flat along its smooth length to cut down on wind resistance, and shot into the sky as if he'd been hurled from a catapult.

What he had seen when he'd reached for Seth's mind had been this; _The two boys, Seth and Chris Potter, standing in the deep, somehow murky shade of what could only be the Forbidden Forest- cause enough for alarm in itself- but that was nothing compared to what he saw next. He realized that there was something else nearby in the gloom- a massive green hillock that, though peculiarly still just now, bore a deeply disturbing resemblance to- oh, sweet merciful FUCK. _

_A dragon. It was an honest to God fucking dragon, asleep for the time being, but not, if the boys got their way, for very much longer. In fact, Chris was already nudging Seth toward it, whispering _(his voice having taken on a weird, echoing sort of quality, as voices did when Draco tuned in to them through his magic) _that he dared Seth to pull a scale from the end of its tail- just one, go on- and then Seth was moving cautiously forward, never able to refuse a challenge from his best friend, willing to gamble life and limb rather than risk losing face in front of Chris, and God help him, Draco was going to give those two a piece of his mind that they would NEVER forget-_

He flattened himself further; called up a deep reserve of speed he'd barely known he possessed, squinting into the wind as he accelerated toward the Forbidden Forest at a speed that would have caused any but the most expert flyer to lose control entirely. Harry would have been able to keep pace with him, and so would a handful of professional Quidditch players- but not all of them, not by a long shot.

And still he was terrified that he would be too late.

Then a furious roar ripped through the peaceful, still mid-morning air. Draco swore a blue streak under his breath; tried to accelerate again. No dice. He couldn't go any faster than he already was; it simply wasn't possible. He had reached the end of his broom's capacity for speed.

_GET ON YOUR BROOM, SETH!_ He screamed with his mind, putting all the force of his magic into this thought, hoping desperately that it would carry to his son. _I'm almost there; fly up to me. FLY UP!_

There had been only one time in Draco's life that he had been more frightened than he was in this moment, and that had been when he'd been seventeen and Hermione had lain dying in his arms on the front steps of Hogwarts Castle. He had known that she'd been dying; he had known there hadn't been a single thing he could do to save her. The God-awful frantic, _howling_ sense of helplessness, just watching her slip away… it was not something he'd thought he'd ever have to experience again. But now, with one of his children at risk- at grave, potentially fatal risk- he found himself right back there again, all the intervening years wiped away in a heartbeat; the helplessness, the hopelessness, the wild, mindless desperation. Because he wasn't going to make it in time.

It was like being trapped in a nightmare; his broom was the fastest bloody racing model in existence, yet it felt as though he was flying through molasses; traveling and traveling and not getting any closer. He was over the Forbidden Forest now, but there was no sign of Seth or Chris as he scanned the trees below. He was so far gone in fear, his entire world had narrowed down to two things, and two things only- Seth, somewhere down there on his broom (God _please_ let him be on his broom; it was his _only chance_), and Draco himself on his, speeding toward his son like an arrow loosed from a bow. Debilitating fear had so altered his perception and thought-processes that he wasn't thinking clearly enough to even contemplate whether there was some way he could alter this situation through magic; he'd been reduced to running on instinct. Fly fast. Find Seth. That was it.

And then the boys shot out of the trees ahead but God, they were impossibly far away; he could barely make them out. And no more than a heartbeat later the dragon exploded skyward after them, and bloody hell, the thing looked _pissed_.

Draco had a heartbeat or two of the most intense despair he'd ever felt in his life- his son was going to die in front of him, he was a failure as a father, he shouldn't have slept in this morning, he should have known what Seth was up to, it was _all his fault_; and then- incredibly, _unbelievably_- another figure on a broom came hurling out from the trees. Like Draco himself, the newcomer was pressed flat along the length of his broomstick, and like Draco he was flying with uncommon prowess and all the blurred, barely-comprehensible speed of a shooting star. And what was more startling still was that even at this distance it was easy to see that the newcomer had hair the exact same shade as Draco's own; that pristine, powdered-sugar white- a color he had never in his life encountered on anyone other than himself, his father, and Ronnelle. In other words, a color he had previously considered to be the unique trademark of only a very few people in the world- all of whom had Malfoy blood in their veins.

Then, as Chris and Seth raced toward Draco and he toward them, the newcomer proceeded to shoot directly in front of the dragon, cutting off its line of pursuit and shooting off a spell at it, effectively redirecting its attention away from the boys and onto himself.

The dragon whirled in the air, and even as it turned to pursue the newcomer it lashed out with its tail in the direction of the fleeing boys. They had (thank God thank _God_) managed to put enough distance between it and themselves that the whip-like tail came in contact with nothing but empty air- but even so, the turbulence it created sent them spinning and tumbling out of control.

Seth was actually dangling from his broom by one arm when Draco reached him, yanking his _own _broom up hard enough that it skidded sideways several feet in the air even as Draco swept his son into his arms, shaking with reaction and the beginnings of incredulous relief, holding Seth so tightly that he must have been restricting the boy's ability to breathe.

He glanced around, scanning the sky for the newcomer, but at the moment there was no sign either of him or of the dragon. Distant roars and sounds as of something enormous crashing through the underbrush suggested that both of them had vanished, for the time being, back below the tree line.

Draco fully intended to find them and render whatever aid he could, but first things first; he needed to get Seth safely down to the ground.

"Chris! Follow me!" he barked over his shoulder to Harry and Ginny's wide-eyed son, who had managed to right himself and was hovering nearby; then he tilted his broom sharply downward, angling toward the edge of the woods.

By the time his feet hit the grass, Draco was shaking so hard he wasn't entirely positive his legs would support him. In a pre-emptive move he sank deliberately to his knees in the grass, still clasping Seth to him; unwilling- un_able_- to let go just yet, as Chris Potter alighted a few feet away, holding Seth's broomstick, which he had grabbed out of the air when Draco had pulled Seth from it. Both of the boys were as pale as death, breathing hard. Neither of them said a word.

It was only through a deliberate act of will that Draco was able to at long last lower his arms, releasing his son. And even so, he simply couldn't bear having the physical connection severed completely; he clasped Seth almost immediately by the upper arms and then, before he even understood what he was doing, he was shaking the boy so hard his teeth rattled.

He found, when he tried to speak, that he was having trouble even so much as stringing words together in any way that made sense. "You- Seth- God_damn_ it- could have-" and then he yanked the boy forward, crushing him to his chest again.

It was over Seth's shoulder that he saw the newcomer emerge from the woods, on foot now, and staggering.

00000

_Luke could hardly believe his luck. As far as entrances went, he couldn't have engineered a better one, not if he'd had months to plan. As it was, he'd just been going to knock on the door later that morning- it wasn't as if Draco's Malfoy's home was difficult to find, after all; he and his mudblood wife being among wizarding Britain's most celebrated couples. But THIS- well, this was providence, and no mistake._

_He'd spent the past couple of nights at an inn just outside of Hogsmeade, lying low and getting the lay of the land, and had been out in the forest this morning with a satchel, collecting some potions ingredients that figured crucially into his plans, but couldn't be bought without raising suspicions. Even in Knockturn Alley, people were bound to look at you funny if you asked for this stuff. _

_When he'd heard the commotion nearby, it had only been natural to check it out, and when he'd seen the boys in danger he'd done what he could to help, thankful that he'd had his broomstick along. He may have a mission to carry out, but that didn't make him pure evil. He wasn't going to stand by and watch two innocent children get barbequed without even trying to intervene- well, not two wizarding children, at any rate. If they'd been filthy Muggles, it would have been a different story_… _but they clearly were not Muggles, so that was neither here nor there._

_But as soon as he'd cleared the trees and seen the other man shooting toward him, he'd understood the magnitude of his luck. Because the other man was Draco Malfoy- had to be- even at a distance there was no mistaking his most defining feature; one that was shared by Luke himself. That hair. _

_Luke was no fool. In an instant he had understood two things; that Draco Malfoy was in one hell of a hurry to reach those little boys, and that the boys themselves appeared to be just about the age of Draco's son. Conclusion; one of them WAS Draco's halfblood son (and would have to be dealt with as such- but that was for another day.) By attempting to save the two youngsters, he'd just maneuvered past Draco's guard without even consciously trying_…_ and that had been the biggest flaw in his plan; the fact that he hadn't worked out a satisfactory way of getting Draco to lower his defenses. Well, other than the fact that they were brothers. But even so, Draco was likely to react with caution, at least initially. So this opportunity was a godsend. By drawing off the dragon and helping to save the boy, Luke was positive he had just saved himself a whole lot of time and effort in winning Draco's trust- which was critical to his plan._

_Damn shame about crashing that broomstick, though. It had been a good one._

_That was something he _hadn't _intended- he'd allowed the dragon to get too close; it had been a mistake. Though he had evaded its fiery breath, it had managed to rake him with its claws just as he dove back into the cover of the trees. It had opened three parallel gashes across his back, from one side right over to the other, and though the wounds were not deep, they were bleeding quite freely. Furthermore, the pain and distraction of them had caused him to lose control of his broom, and go slamming into a tree even as he had managed to twist around and fire off a blinding spell, which had hit its mark unerringly and caused the beast to blunder off through the woods, bellowing in panic._

_Then he'd been falling. _

_It hadn't been a terribly high fall, but it had been jarring, and plenty damaging, and this on top of the slashes he'd already sustained. He was pretty sure he had cracked a rib or two, and he'd smacked his head hard enough to make stars dance across his vision._

_So no, demolishing his broomstick and half-killing himself into the bargain had definitely not been part of the game plan. But if these circumstances helped him achieve his goal of a quick, smooth insertion into Draco Malfoy's household, then so much the better. He could deal._

_He just couldn't see so well at the moment. Or walk so well. Or _breathe _so well._

_But he made it out of the trees. And when he caught sight of Draco running toward him, concern written all over his face, so obvious that he could make it out with no trouble at all even as his vision darkened ominously around the edges, then inwardly at least-_

_Luke smiled._

00000

The moment he'd seen the newcomer stagger out of the woods, Draco had known there was no possible way he was going to be able to keep his feet. There was no doubt about it; whoever he was, he was hurt- and more than a little. Because he had diverted the dragon, effectively saving Seth and Chris's lives. There was nothing, Draco vowed in that moment, nothing on earth he wouldn't do for this stranger to make things right. A life debt had been entered into just now, and since the boys were underage, Draco would assume the burden of it himself.

Anything- _anything _he asked for, the stranger would receive.

And this was all before he'd even gotten a good look at him.

He reached him as the kid's legs buckled, and that was the first thing Draco realized- _Merlin's balls, he's just a kid! _On the heels of this realization came another, as Draco caught him under the arms and eased him to the ground, scanning quickly for visible damage- and this second realization nearly knocked the air right out of Draco's lungs-

The newcomer wasn't _just_ a kid.

He was Draco as a kid.

It was like looking back in time- himself at seventeen.

That hair he had noticed, even at a distance… the shape of the face, the sharply defined features… and the eyes, the shade of those _eyes_…

"Holy shit," Draco whispered, and then again, louder, "holy _shit_."

_Who are you? _his mind was shouting, _just who the fuck ARE you?_

But '_holy shit_' were the only words he could seem to force out. He was marginally aware of the fact that Seth and Chris had come up behind him and were now flanking him, staring down at the stranger with enormous eyes.

"Woah, dad," Seth half-whispered in an awed voice, "he looks _just _like you."

And then the stranger, the newcomer, the kid- he reached up and grabbed a fistful of Draco's shirt- his grip surprisingly strong for someone's whose legs had just gone out from under him and was bleeding steadily into the grass- and pulled Draco down until their noses nearly touched.

"It's you," he said, his eyes locked on Draco's own even though Draco could tell he was having trouble maintaining focus now. "It _is _you. Draco Malfoy."

'Yeah," Draco managed. This whole situation seemed increasingly surreal to him. "Yeah, I'm Draco Malfoy. Were you looking for me?"

"Name's Luke." The kid's voice was fading to a whisper. "Hell yes, I've been… looking for you. I'm-" he broke off; made what appeared to be a valiant attempt at a smile, though it came over as more of a grimace- "I'm your brother."

And then his grip on Draco slackened and his eyes rolled back, and he was lost to unconsciousness.


	4. Doppelganger

Hermione had only been awake for fifteen minutes or so, and was in the kitchen in her robe, still groggy, sipping coffee and wondering where her husband could have gotten himself off to, when she heard the front door slam open with a terrific bang- footsteps pounding down the corridor and Seth's voice shouting "Mum! _Mum!_" in an agony of excitement. She'd barely managed to turn from the counter when her son came skidding to a halt in the kitchen doorway, Chris Potter just inches behind him… and what on earth was Chris doing here? She didn't recall discussing such an arrangement with Ginny. Not that she ever _minded _having Chris over; he was almost like one of her own, but-

"_MUM!_" Seth cut through her foggy musings, demanding her attention and demanding it now. She raised a hand to her temple, wincing. She was so not up to dealing with two over-excited, _shouting_ adolescent boys right now. Well, only her own son appeared to be shouting as of yet, but still- the light in the kitchen seemed far too bright, and Seth's voice much, _much_ too loud. Merlin, what had Draco given her last night? It had certainly packed a wallop. She knew he'd been trying to help and she appreciated that, really she did, but-

"-dragon knocked him off his broom and he's hurt bad, mum, and dad carried him home and he looks _just like dad_ and- and are you listening? Mum, are you _listening _to me?"

She frowned, trying to follow. "Seth, what are you talking about? Someone's hurt? Who's hurt?" An ice-cold, heart-stopping bolt of foreboding shot through her. "Is it _Draco?_ Seth, Is your father hurt?"

He finally stopped his babbling then, only to stand uncharacteristically still for a long moment, still breathing hard and looking at her, now, as if she'd grown a second head. "Mum, you're not listening," he said at last. "What's wrong? Are you okay?" He crossed over to her then, his dark eyes concerned. They were so like her own, those eyes- Ronnelle had gotten Draco's coloring, and Seth had gotten hers. He reached gently to take the coffee cup from her hand and place it down on the kitchen table, then pressed the back of _his_ hand against her forehead and each of her cheeks in turn, as if feeling for a fever. It was something she'd done to both him and his sister from infancy, any time she'd thought she might sense some encroaching illness. It just about floored her that he was spontaneously doing it back to her now- not to mention the fact that his troubled eyes were nearly on a level with her own all the while. He was less than half a head shorter than her now… when in Merlin's name had _that_ happened? And how had she ever failed to notice properly before?

But she couldn't dwell on that now. She had to pull herself together, for Seth. She was worrying him; that much was obvious.

"I'm sorry, love," she said, managing a tired smile. "I just didn't… sleep very well last night. I'm all right, really. Now what's going on?"

He looked at her a moment longer before answering- an intent, searching look she'd never seen in his eyes before. Then he gave his head a small shake, as if to clear it. "Dad needs your help," he said. "He took Luke to the spare room. Luke's hurt bad, mum."

Hermione tried to make sense of this. Her heart was pounding all of a sudden and when she next spoke, her lips felt numb. She had difficulty forming the words. At the time she chalked it up to lingering aftereffects of whatever Draco had given her to help her sleep the night before… but later she would reach the conclusion that she knew, on some deep level, right at that moment- knew that something evil had entered her happy home.

"Seth. Who… is… Luke?"

00000

"Draco, what-" the words died on her lips as she pushed open the door of the spare bedroom and got her first look at the figure lying on the bed. "Oh my God," she half-whispered, stunned by what she was seeing. She actually felt her legs go to jelly with the shock of it; Seth had _said _that this- this Luke, whoever he was, looked just like Draco, but- nothing could have prepared her for this. If she hadn't actually seen her husband leaning over the prone figure, she would truly have believed that the boy on the bed was Draco, somehow regressed to his late teens, and… and clearly at death's door. Merlin, it was how he'd looked after he'd got back from burning the manor. If she hadn't been holding onto the doorframe, she might actually have slid to her knees.

"Oh my God," she said again, weakly. "Draco, who… who _is_ he?"

He looked up at her, hair falling slantways across his eyes, expression grim. "You're not gonna believe this," he said, motioning her over with a jerk of his head. His face was nearly as ashen as the boy sprawled out on the coverlet. 'I can't believe it myself, but I've done it twice already, and it's come up the same. Look at this."

Hermione crossed the room to sink down on the edge of the bed, her eyes riveted on the battered and bloodied, unconscious teenager. Behind her she heard some jostling at the door; she glanced over to see Seth, Chris, and a sleepy-eyed Ronnelle now, too- the boys must have gotten her, woken her up- watching curiously… then she refocused her attention on-

_Luke. Seth said his name is Luke. Which sounds an awful lot like-_

_Lucius._ She fought to suppress a shudder. Could it be coincidence? Somehow, she thought not. A cold ball of dread was settling deep in her stomach. She didn't like this. Dear God, she didn't like this at _all_.

"Hermione," Draco murmured, "watch."

With a flick of his fingers- he'd very rarely bothered using a wand since the advent of his incredibly strong magic all those years ago- he sent a shimmering drop of Luke's very red blood up into the air, to hang suspended two feet or so over the bed. A second later this was joined by a drop of Draco's own blood- he'd pricked himself, Hermione realized, on his right thumb. As the two drops hung there, spherical, close enough that they were almost touching, he turned his attention to the doorway for moment. "Seth," he said quietly, "come here."

Seth didn't need telling twice. He was there so fast Hermione barely saw him move. "Draco, _no_-" she protested, but the deed was done. Draco was already releasing Seth's wrist, a drop of the boy's scarlet blood rising into the air to take its place beside the other two. Seth stuck the finger his father had pricked into his mouth and sucked at it a bit ruefully.

"Better this way," Draco said curtly. "One more way of judging the accuracy of the spell. Now- _you_ do it this time. I've tried twice already like I said, but I want to see if your results are the same as mine, or different."

Frowning deeply now, Hermione pulled her wand from a pocket of her robe, focusing it- and all her attention- on the three suspended drops of blood. Flicking it first toward Seth's, she murmured the incantation of the most reliable identification spell she knew. The tiny red sphere vanished, to be replaced by shimmering words which hung a moment in the air.

_Seth Draconis Malfoy. Age Twelve. Parents: Draco Malfoy, Hermione (Granger) Malfoy. Bloodline: Fifteenth generation Malfoy (Pureblood), Eighth generation Granger (Muggle)._

The words vanished; Seth's blood along with them. Hermione's eyes locked with Draco's for an instant. There was no questioning the accuracy of the information that the spell had provided. She turned her attention to the next blood drop.

_Draco Lucius Malfoy. Age Thirty-Four. Parents: Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa (Black) Malfoy. Bloodline: Fourteenth generation Malfoy (Pureblood), Sixteenth generation Black (Pureblood)._

Two down; two inarguably correct. That left only one more. And oh, _God_, she didn't want to face it. She didn't want this person here, whoever he was. And she felt wretched because he was young and he was hurt and he was almost certainly a long-lost relation of her husband, but there was something wrong about this- something rotten- she knew it deep down, instinctually, and she _did not want him here at all_. She wanted nothing more in the world than to simply vanish that last, little drop- and this so-called _Luke_ right along with it. Instead she steeled herself, and performed the spell one final time.

_Luke Abraxas Malfoy. Age Seventeen. Parents: Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa (Black) Malfoy. Bloodline: Fourteenth generation Malfoy (Pureblood), Sixteenth generation Black (Pureblood)._

"Sweet Merlin," she whispered sickly. Draco had gone, if anything, an even whiter shade of pale. He looked… stricken. Yes, he'd performed the spell himself already, but this confirmed it, beyond the shadow of a doubt. Hermione's eyes sought his again. "A brother, Draco? Jesus Christ, a _full brother?_"

And there was accusation in her voice. She heard it there as clear as a bell and she knew that he did too- and she hadn't meant to accuse, but she couldn't- God, she couldn't _help _it. And it wasn't fair at all; he was so obviously just as floored as she was. But this meant- this _had _to mean- that his mother had survived their showdown, survived the fire at the manor; crept off somehow into the night. Crept off, somehow, _pregnant_ into the night. Had there been a time, ever, even once, that Draco might have suspected as much? And if so, then why hadn't he _shared_ that with her?

And where, precisely, was Narcissa Malfoy _now?_

_She remembered the ice-blonde woman standing over her as she'd lain curled on what had been Draco's childhood bed- half-dead from her treatment at Lucius' hands; beaten, raped, bloodied, wracked with fever. She remembered the cold cruelty in the eyes, the voice; the expressive, sneering lips. "You stole my only child away, and there is no punishment too severe for that crime. You deserve _everything_ my husband gives you, and ten times more as well. CRUCIO!"_

Draco was talking to her. She had to make a conscious effort to banish the nightmarish memory and tune him in.

"-to get Severus. Look after him while I'm gone, all right? Clean him up, check for broken bones, do what you can for him. I'll be back as quickly as I can. Hermione? _All right?_"

She blinked stupidly at him. Opened her mouth; shut it again. Merlin, what was wrong with her? She felt like she'd been broadsided by the Hogwarts Express… but she needed to pull herself together. Her husband was asking for her help. Her children were watching. And there was a young man splayed out on her spare bed, at death's door, and she wasn't about to just let him _expire_ there, no matter what her misgivings. So she needed to get a hold of herself, and right quick.

She tried to speak; could barely manage a croak. Swallowed; rallied; tried again.

"All right, Draco. Go on, I'll be fine here. I'll do what I can."

His eyes narrowed, searching, much as Seth's had earlier. "You _sure_ you're all right?"

"Draco, go. You need to go. Now." _But oh boy, do we have a thing or two to talk about later._

He turned away at last. "Ronnelle, stay and help your mother. Do whatever she asks you to do, and do it quickly, and do it well. Seth, Chris, outside. And don't think for a second that I've forgotten about that stunt you pulled this morning."

That certainly got Hermione's attention- she suddenly remembered Seth's words from the kitchen; words that had been lost upon her at the time- _dragon knocked him off his broom_- dear lord, where did a _dragon _come into this?- but by the time she'd collected herself to try to catch her son's eye, he was gone- Draco and Chris Potter too. Only Ronnelle was left in the room, Hermione and Ronnelle and…

_Luke Abraxas Malfoy._

_Luke_.

00000

"Mmmmhh… mum?"

Hermione froze. Luke was waking up.

She had banished Ronnelle from the room, turned him onto his stomach, vanished his shirt, cleaned up the blood, and there'd been a good amount of it; and was in the process of tending the three ugly gashes that ran across his back- dragon-inflicted without a doubt. She'd already applied liberal doses of a thick, viscous disinfectant potion (which she knew from prior experience stung like the dickens and was probably responsible for bringing him around) and was busy bandaging the wounds when he spoke.

Well, not spoke, exactly. Mumbled, more like.

Also attempted to get his arms under him and push himself up, with not a whole lot of success. He collapsed back onto his stomach with a muffled "mmph," shaking his head, face pressed into the pillow, his breath coming now in shallow, pained gasps.

"Hold still," Hermione told him, in as steady and soothing a voice as she could manage. "I'm almost done bandaging you, but I think there are internal injuries- at the very least you've cracked a rib or two- so just stay as still as you can, all right?"

He froze, his body going so taut that she knew he had to be hurting himself worse. And Merlin, he looked so much like Draco. Face-down like that, she could easily mistake him for her husband if she didn't know better, age-difference or no. It was so disorienting.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked then, in a tense, ragged, pain-infused voice.

She took a deep breath. "My name is Hermione, and I know your name is Luke. You're safe here." She hesitated, then added, "if you tell me where your mother is, I can contact her for you."

He turned his head slowly toward the sound of her voice. When his eyes met hers for the first time she had to suppress a gasp of horrified recognition. They were Lucius' eyes. Not in color alone- Draco had his father's eyes, almost exactly, in that respect as well- no, with Luke it went far deeper than that. His eyes, quite aside from their startling, ice-grey shade, were cold, and calculating, and ruthless, absolutely without mercy. God, what kind of monster had Draco brought into their home?

"My mother is dead," he said flatly. "She's been dead for longer than I can remember."

"Oh," she heard herself say, recovering quickly from the shock of those eyes- outwardly at least- "oh, I'm so sorry."

She wasn't, though. She wouldn't have been sorry to hear that Narcissa Malfoy was dead even if she had believed it- far from it- but she didn't believe it. Not for one second. That feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach was settling in, it seemed, for a nice long stay. Because-

_If your mother's been dead for longer than you can remember, then why, pray tell, did you call out for her a moment ago? When you woke up hurt and confused, before you realized where you were, before your guard went up- why did you say her name, Luke Abraxas Malfoy? _She thought grimly. _Answer me that, oh newfound brother-in-law of mine._

00000

By the time Draco returned with Severus Snape, the man who was something like a surrogate uncle to both him and Hermione, in tow, Luke had lapsed back into unconsciousness. Hermione had turned him onto his back once more and there he lay; midsection criss-crossed with white bandages, breathing shallow and erratic, one arm loosely curled over his stomach, the other flung out to the side. Bandages were wrapped askew around his head, too, Hermione having discovered the nasty, blood-encrusted lump where he'd smacked it on the tree as he fell. His hair, nearly as white as the bandages themselves, was tousled and stick-uppy as a result, the effect making him appear hardly older than Seth.

And really, when one stopped to think about it, he hardly _was_ any older than Seth. He was still so _young_. And he looked so helpless, and so alone.

He wasn't, though- Hermione was almost positive. He wasn't helpless, and he wasn't alone. His mother was out there, somewhere, lurking, and almost certainly pulling strings. Hermione didn't think he'd come to be here by accident, oh no. And he wasn't so very young either, not really. Draco had killed when he'd been seventeen. No, Luke was old enough to be dangerous, and something was rotten about this whole situation, she _knew_ it, and she wanted him out, _out, OUT_ of her home.

00000

Snape was every bit as shocked and disturbed by what he saw as either Draco or Hermione had been- disturbed by the sight of the boy on the bed, the boy who looked _too _close to Draco for comfort- less a younger brother than… than some sort of _doppelganger_- but disturbed also by the state Hermione appeared to be in. She was sitting in a chair beside the bed, hunched forward with her elbows on her knees and her face dropped into her hands. She looked wrung-out and miserable; he hadn't seen her like this since… since the dark days. A long, _long _time ago. And this young woman had had enough dark days back then to last her a lifetime and beyond. So she shouldn't have to be subjected to shocking, unwelcome surprises like this right now. After what she'd been through, if there were any justice in life, she should have nothing else until the end of her days but smooth sailing… she had _earned _that, by God. And so he hated seeing her this way. Hated it.

"Hermione?" he said quietly, crossing the room and dropping to one knee in front of her. He reached out, gently clasped her shoulder. They were co-workers now, seeing each other every day while Hogwarts was in session, often embroiled in amicable rivalry now that Hermione had taken over the position of Gryffindor Head of House… but they were so much more than that. The bond between them, just like the bond between Snape and Draco, went so much deeper.

Her dark eyes were glazed when she raised them to meet his. With what? Worry? Fatigue? _Tears?_ She darted a quick glance over to Luke, and to Draco who was leaning close over him, frowning.

"Severus," she said, trying for a smile and failing utterly. "Thank you for coming. I patched him together as best I could but we thought you should look at him, or Poppy. There could be internal injuries. I've been told it was a broomstick crash… dragon related." (Her lips quirked down as she said this and he realized in a flash that sheactually _hadn't_ been told the circumstances that had brought Luke here- or at least, not all of them. And wasn't _that_ out of character for the Malfoy family… it was unheard of that either Draco or Hermione shouldn't be immediately and fully appraised by one another of _any_ circumstance likely to affect either them or their children.)

She was continuing, "Maybe he should be taken to the Hogwarts infirmary, or even St. Mungo's-"

"No chance," Draco spoke up, his eyes never leaving Luke's pallid face. His voice was quiet, but firm. "He stays here. He's my brother. He belongs _here_."

Snape frowned, _his _eyes remaining steadfastly on Hermione's. He hadn't a clue how to proceed here; during the entire course of their married lives, Draco and Hermione had always, _always_ presented a united front. He'd only known them to quarrel once, back in school; the result of Draco's disastrously misguided attempt to remove Hermione from harm's way by breaking her heart. They'd had a row then, all right- and the fallout had nearly cost both of them their lives.

An icy fist of- _something_- gripped his heart, nearly taking his breath away. A premonition? Shit. Oh, shit. What had he walked into? What was going _on _here?

But then the moment was passing and Hermione was getting to her feet, her hand finding his arm, lingering there for a second as if _he_ were the one in need of comforting… and maybe he was, for that. There was no denying that something about walking in and seeing Draco's double lying on the bed like that had shaken him deeply.

"Draco's right, of course," she said, and her voice had regained at least a modicum of its usual briskness. But she wouldn't meet his eyes now- even when he actively sought hers she remained half turned away. "Luke is family; there is no doubt of it. So his place is in our home- _if _he can receive adequate care here."

She moved toward the bedroom door, then, with the parting words, "I need to go and see to the children. It's nearly eleven o'clock, and they won't have eaten at all today. I should floo Ginny about Chris as well. Thank you again, Severus. Let me know if there's anything you require."

And she was gone, closing the door with a soft click behind her. Draco, Snape noticed through narrowed eyes, never even looked up.


	5. Night Horrors

(WARNING: Disturbing rape flashback. Poor Hermione! She's having a hard go of things lately…)

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_The pain crashing in on her from behind was incredible_… _but it was the degradation of it that made her long to die. As near as she could tell, she was two days in to her captivity at the hands of Lucius Malfoy, but her grasp of the passage of time- her grasp of reality, really- was starting to slip. She was feverish, wracked by chills; her body had been shaking for several hours now without cease- and the brutal rape that Lucius was currently subjecting her to, on what had, at one time, been Draco's own childhood bed, was not helping matters. _

_God, the pain- it hurt SO MUCH- and the burning shame of it- and the horror of his appearance, of the sound of his voice- because now, as with the other times he'd done this to her, he'd used Polyjuice Potion to take on the form of his son. Just one more method of torturing her. Physically, mentally, emotionally- he was, undeniably, a master at all three._

_This was the worst it had been yet because he'd thrown her face-down on the bed; it was even more debasing this way, somehow, than in any other position; it made her feel less than human- an animal; an object. The panic didn't come until the very end, though; until he wound his fingers through her hair and yanked, hard, causing her to cry out in agony and arch her back, sobbing now, as he found his release and flooded her, _defiled_ her with his seed- it was dirty; foul; it burned and stung inside her. But the thing that really brought the panic on was that at this very moment she seemed to leave her own body, rising above herself to float near the ceiling, looking down on this horrific vision of pain and misery as her tormentor slammed hard into her once, twice more, forcing her unwilling body to accept every last disgusting drop. And now she started to scream in earnest._

_Because the girl on the bed wasn't her. Not her hands wound helplessly in the bedclothes, white-knuckled from holding on so tight; not her wild, dark, flyaway hair; not her face, contorted in agony and disgust and despair, biting on her lower lip hard enough to draw blood as tears continued to seep from eyes that had been slammed shut in frantic, futile negation, streaking down flushed, feverish cheeks. _

_The girl on the bed wasn't her. No, it was a thousand times worse than that. The rumpled platinum blonde hair, still caught in her captor's grip; the angular features, more a legacy from her father than from Hermione herself._

_It was Ronnelle._

_It was Hermione's beautiful, innocent fifteen-year-old daughter._

_It was too much to bear._

_She screamed and screamed and screamed-_

And even once she found herself awake, sitting bolt upright in bed, shaking uncontrollably, her nightshirt pasted to her body with cold sweat, she couldn't stop screaming.

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Draco wasn't there to comfort her, either; she was alone in the bed. And wherever else in the house he was- sitting with his injured brother, no doubt- he wouldn't hear her distress because of the soundproofing wards on the master bedroom. She had to pull herself together. She _had_ to.

That was what the logical part of her mind was trying to tell her, but it was easier said than done. Even once she managed to quiet her screams, it took her several long moments to get her breathing under control. That done, she found she was still shaking, and nauseas besides, as images from the dream continued to assail her. Virtually throwing herself from the bed, she stumbled into the adjoining bathroom and was violently ill for a quarter of an hour.

It was only after the retching and heaving had subsided, as she sat shivering on the cold bathroom floor, huddled miserably in the corner, wedged between the toilet and the wall, her knees drawn up to her chest and her forehead resting on them, every bit as feverish and ill now in waking as she'd been in her nightmare flashback, that it occurred to her-

_Ronnelle_.

She needed to check on her daughter. _NOW_.

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And that was where Draco found her, hours later, with grey dawn creeping over the horizon; sitting on Ronnelle's bedroom floor, chin resting on her drawn-up knees, staring into space in the general direction of their daughter's bed, but unseeing; of that much he was sure. Her dark eyes were glazed with exhaustion; haunted; red-rimmed. Tear tracks stained her cheeks.

He felt quite suddenly as cold as if someone had crept up behind and doused him with ice water.

"Hermione?" he asked quietly, so as not to wake Ronnelle. He'd had a bad feeling the moment he'd opened the master bedroom door to find the bed disheveled and the room empty… but this was beyond anything he'd imagined. This was… just… _creepy_.

"Hermione," he said again, crossing the room to crouch in front of her. Her only response was a deep, prolonged shudder.

Merlin, what was going on with his wife?

And it was right on the heels of this thought that he felt the first twinge of annoyance; of frustration with her. Why now, in Merlin's name, why _now?_ Of all the times he needed her support, with a younger brother he'd never known existed suddenly appearing in his life… only to very nearly die in his arms after saving Seth from certain disaster- it was overwhelming, frankly. Mentally and emotionally just completely overwhelming.

He really would have welcomed his wife's usual cool, calm demeanor in this situation; it soothed him, helped him to think. It always had. But instead she had chosen now- _now!_- to have some sort of a… a mini-breakdown, or something. And bloody hell, how much could he be expected to _take _right now? He just didn't know. His nerves felt frayed nearly to the breaking point already.

"Hermione," he said again, just as quietly, conscious of his sleeping daughter just a few short feet away, but there was no denying that a hint of sharpness had entered his tone.

Hermione blinked… once, twice. Slowly, some measure of focus came into her eyes. "Draco," she whispered in a raw, cracked little voice.

Ronnelle sighed deeply in her sleep, and tossed from her back onto her stomach. That decided Draco- it was time to go. He gathered Hermione into his arms- she was pliant; unresisting- and carried her, as quietly as possible, from the room. Behind him, Ronnelle's door clicked softly shut in accordance with a quick, distracted thought Draco sent its way.

Then he was down the hall and his own door- _their_ door, Hermione's and his- was opening and shutting in the same way, and a second later he was laying her down on the rumpled bed and lying down himself, beside her; their bodies now pressed together nearly from head to foot. She was shaking, he suddenly realized; trembling from tip to toe and her body was cold but her cheeks were flushed and her forehead very hot.

"Hermione," he said again, "you have got to tell me what is going on."

No response.

"I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong!" And the frustration was clear, now, in his voice. Still nothing. He sighed; clunked his forehead against hers, their hair and breath mingling.

"One way or another, I need to know what's going on. If you're not going to tell me, Hermione, then I'm going to look for myself."

She closed her eyes. Pulled in a deep, shuddering breath. Swallowed. Said nothing.

"God, Hermione," Draco ground out. He _never_ ordinarily touched his wife's thoughts or dreams. It seemed to him such an invasive thing to do; a breach of trust, somehow. He didn't want to have to do it now. He wanted his wife to bloody well tell him what was the matter!

But she wasn't telling him anything. And one way or another, he was bound and determined to find out. Something was telling him that this was simply too important to let go. So, arms still loosely locked about her, he closed his own eyes and delved into what she'd been thinking- and dreaming- earlier that night.

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"_No!_" he shouted aloud, hoarsely, wrenching himself out of Hermione's nightmare so violently that he had actually, physically, shoved away from her and fallen off the edge of the bed before he came fully back to awareness.

On his hands and knees on the floor, he shook his head, trying desperately to banish those God-awful images from his mind. "No," he said again. "Hermione… no… Ronnelle…"

_Ronnelle. _He understood, now, exactly what had compelled his wife, upon waking from this particular night horror, to go almost straight to Ronnelle's room. He had the sudden, frantic urge to check on his only daughter- not to touch her mind from where he was; even that was not good enough this time. He had to go and look and see- really _see_- for himself.

He'd been in there only ten minutes ago, but all of his focus had been on Hermione then. Had Ronnelle been all right? _Really_ all right? Irrational though he knew he was being, suddenly he just wasn't sure. Getting to his feet, he spared Hermione only a glance- she had curled herself into a tight little ball, bringing her arms up to cover her face- and then virtually sprinted back down the hall to his daughter's room.

Ronnelle was fine, of course. Deeply confused when he slammed into the room, all thoughts of silence and stealth banished from his mind in the wake of the horrific scene he'd just witnessed playing out in Hermione's troubled dreams- but fine. She sat straight up in bed, her eyes, so like his- the color of rain clouds- wide and disoriented as she reached up reflexively to push her sleep-tousled hair out of her face.

"Daddy?" she half-whispered. "W'samatter?"

Draco literally sagged against the doorframe with relief, releasing a breath he hadn't even been aware that he was holding. He could barely make his voice work… but he forced himself.

"It's okay, princess," he managed, reverting in that moment back to the old pet name he'd used when she'd been a child; something he hadn't called her in at least five years. He crossed to her bed and dropped a kiss on her forehead. "Nothing's wrong. Go back to sleep now, all right? It's early still."

She didn't need telling twice. That was one thing about Ronnelle… the girl had never had trouble in going to sleep. Or back to sleep, as the case may be- even after such an unexpected interruption as this.

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When he got back to the master bedroom Hermione was sitting up in bed with her back against the headboard. Her knees were drawn up and her arms clasped around them, hugging herself; it was a tight, defensive posture that he'd seen a lot of when they'd been dating and first married… and hadn't seen at all in the years since. Until now.

She watched him across the room with flat, exhausted eyes. He sat beside her and reached for her, but before he could make contact she spoke; four simple words that sent him reeling.

"Is he still alive?"

The question hit him like a punch to the gut, not because he didn't understand it- he knew exactly who she was referring to- but because of what it implied. Before he could even begin to frame a reply, she repeated it, her voice urgent now, insistent.

"Draco, _is your father alive?_"

"_No!_" he practically shouted, voice a lot harsher than he'd intended, but still, what a question to ask him! "I killed him with my own hands, Hermione, I killed him for _you!_ Potter too, we spoke the words together. Did you think I'd lied to you _all these years?_ That we _both_ had? Is that what you thought?"

"I don't-" her voice was so small. She dropped her head onto her knees, brought her hands up, fisting them in her dark, disheveled hair. "I'm sorry, Draco. I am. I just… I don't know _what_ to think. You saw the dream, you saw-" she shuddered violently- "you saw how _real_ it was."

He sighed, raking a hand through his own hair, his exasperation with her lessening. Not disappearing altogether, no, but lessening just the same. His voice was gentler when he spoke again. "I saw how real it seemed to you. But it was still just a dream, Hermione. It was… first it was you and then it was-" (he had to swallow hard; it hurt him even to say it)- "Ronnelle. That sort of… switch-up only happens in dreams, you _know_ that, bookworm."

"I know, I-" her voice was choked now, and when she raised her face to his he saw, with a tightening in his chest, that her eyes were streaming tears. A quick sob escaped her before she managed to speak again. "I just- I don't… Draco, what's _happening_ to me?"

"God, Hermione." He felt so helpless. One of the most powerful wizards to ever live, or so the experts told him, yet he was at a complete loss to save the woman he loved from the tortures of her own mind. "I don't know, love. I just don't know."

She gave another choked little sob and he pulled her into his arms. She was still shaking, and hard.

"Shhhhh," he soothed, holding her tightly and stroking her hair.

"Something's happening," she whispered into his chest. "Something's changing. Draco, I can feel it. And we have… we have a _good_ life. I don't want that to change!" She dissolved completely into tears.

He gathered her closer, trying to press every inch of her to him, resting his chin on the top of her head. He said the only thing he could think of to say.

"I love you so much, Hermione, more than you could ever know, more than you would _believe_. Nothing, _nothing_ will ever pry me away from you. We're going to get through this together, I promise you, sweetheart, I promise."

His words sounded convincing. And they were certainly having the desired effect on Hermione; she was quieting already, both the tears and the trembling slowly ebbing away.

_He_ wasn't comforted, though- despite the false bravado he'd forced into his voice. The horrific images of Hermione's nightmare were replaying and replaying, ceaselessly, _torturously_, in his mind- (horrible beyond belief to witness such a thing happening to his wife, but a million times worse to even contemplate such a possibility for his only daughter)- and there was a weight in his heart and a cold dread in his gut that were both clamoring to tell him the same thing: something was definitely going on. Something _was_ changing, and not for the better, not by a long shot.

So he wasn't comforted… no, not at all.


	6. Phase Two

"Your baby sister's made you an uncle again," Hermione said quietly, her fingers tracing the carved name on Ronald Weasley's headstone. "And a girl, too… she's so excited, Ron; they both are. They were hoping for a little girl this time around. You have more nieces and nephews now, among your brothers and Ginny, than you could count on the fingers of both hands… but I really think you'd be partial to little Lily. Lily Jane." A small smile curved her lips as she spoke the name- and smiles had become a rare thing for her in the almost three weeks since Draco had gone out early one morning and brought back his long-lost younger brother, who'd remained in her home ever since.

She was pale and drawn, sitting cross-legged on Ron's grave, close enough so that her knees touched the granite headstone, fingers ceaselessly, distractedly, _obsessively_ tracing and retracing the letters there:

_Ronald Bilius Weasley. _

_Son. Brother. Friend. _

_Hero._

The word 'Hero' had been added on the five-year anniversary of his death; it hadn't been a part of the original inscription because, at the time of his death, it had been chalked up to a pointless broomstick-related accident in order to protect the survivors of the horror at Malfoy Manor- most notably Draco, who had come away with quite a few people's blood on his hands- from a Ministry inquiry or any other such potential unpleasantness.

It had been a final indignity to a young man who had yearned all his life for recognition, for a place in the public eye, for a chance to shine. The unfairness of it- of the selfless, heroic nature of Ron's death being swept out of the way, under the rug, in order to protect the living- herself included- could twist Hermione's heart in her chest and bring bile to her throat if she allowed herself to dwell on it.

So she tried, she earnestly tried, not to.

It was a destructive road to go down and she was rational enough to realize this, and to recognize the fact that it didn't do anyone any good at this late date- least of all herself. Still, she could hardly help her mind wandering down these destructive avenues today, with the mounting sense of unease about… well, she wasn't sure _what_ it was about, but it was valid, she was positive of _that_- pressing down on her, closing in on all sides, inching slowly yet inexorably toward true panic.

She swallowed thickly, fighting to keep her composure, but it was a losing battle. A moment later she had dropped her head forward so that her forehead rested against the cool granite slab. A sob ripped through her, made all the more painful because of the desperate effort with which she was attempting to suppress it.

"Oh Ron," she choked out, "something's horribly wrong! I know it and Draco won't believe me and I'm just… so… _scared!_" She wrapped her arms around the stone as she would have around Ron's shoulders, holding on tight. "I don't… God, how I wish you were here! I know you would believe me and I don't… I don't know what to do. I have to be strong and protect the children, but without Draco's support I… I'm lost. And I know I should talk to Harry, I know it, he'd stand by me but… the new baby… he's so busy and… and so _happy_… I can hardly bear the thought of… of _ruining_ that for him… especially when, when no one else seems to think there's a problem… it makes me wonder if I'm losing my _mind! _God, Ron, I need _you_, please tell me what to do! Help me. I muh… muh… hiss… you so muh… much!"

She collapsed entirely into helpless tears.

She'd almost cried herself out when she heard the crunch of footsteps behind her, accompanied by a hesitant "…Mum?"

Letting go the tombstone and scrubbing the back of one hand quickly across her eyes- _oh, who the hell am I kidding, as if that could possibly make any difference_- she turned around to face-

"Ronnelle? Sweetheart, what are you doing here?" She paused for a second in puzzlement, then abruptly stiffened. There was a new, urgent intensity in her voice as she asked, "Is everything all right at home?"

"Fine, mum. You worry _way_ too much. I'm starting to worry about _you_."

With a fluid grace powerfully reminiscent of Draco, the slim blonde girl folded herself onto the ground beside her mother, instantly capturing Hermione's eyes with an intently searching pale grey gaze. It reminded Hermione of the way Seth had looked at her on the morning that… that everything had changed. And it hurt her, the realization that both of her children were obviously worrying about her. It was backwards; it was wrong. It was her job to worry about them, not vice versa. God, she was falling to pieces, and she was dragging her family down with her. _Could_ it be true that it was all in her head? Was she putting them all through this for no reason at all?

_Hermione Jane Granger… _Professor_ Malfoy… you had best pull yourself together. Right. Now._

Through sheer force of will, she managed to do just that- and even pasted a semblance of a smile onto her face. "How did you find me here?" she asked her daughter, in a remarkably steady voice.

Ronnelle gave an easy, one-shouldered shrug- yet another mannerism she'd picked up from her father. "I was bored at home, and dad said you'd come to visit Uncle Ron. I thought that maybe… you might like some company. So I flooed to the Burrow and then I just-" that shrug again- "came here." Her eyes finally left Hermione's, lighting on the tombstone instead.

"You still miss him," she said quietly, meditatively, almost to herself, "even after all these years. I heard you crying, mum. You miss him like a part of yourself is gone. If something like that happened to M- to, um… one of _my_ friends, I don't know what I'd do. I don't know how I'd survive it. I wish-" she broke off; turned toward Hermione again. "I wish I'd known him, mum. I wish I'd known Uncle Ron."

"Me too, darling," Hermione whispered, reaching out to cup her daughter's pale, flawless cheek. "Me too."

00000

Things were going well.

Better than he'd ever dared hope, actually. For the time being, Luke was perfectly content.

True, the first few days had been… difficult, what with the unplanned-for and decidedly painful injuries he had sustained in his encounter with the dragon, but he couldn't possibly have asked for- could never, himself, have engineered- a better introduction into the family's lives and home. He knew that Draco considered himself under a life-debt to him now, which could definitely come in handy down the road a bit… and even the mudblood, whom he sensed didn't trust him any further than she could throw him, had no choice but to owe him her gratitude for having saved her son's life.

And now that some time had uneventfully passed, and especially with the suspicious mudblood out of the house, he felt ready, and comfortable, taking his plan to the next level. Phase two was about to begin.

He'd spent the past couple of hours out flying with Draco and Seth- he had to admit, Draco was pretty damn good, and Seth wasn't half bad for a kid, either. The three had returned to the empty house around midday, famished.

"I'll make lunch," Luke offered, managing to carry off a light-hearted, casual tone despite the fact that his heart was suddenly beating high up in his throat. This was it.

"You don't have to do that, Luke," Draco grinned, "I'll just get Hanni in here to-"

"No, it's all right," he cut in. "I want to. Now that I'm up and about, it's time I started earning my keep somehow. Besides, I know my way around a kitchen, believe it or not. Wait and see- I'll whip up a Durmstrang specialty."

Seth's brow furrowed. "The students at Durmstrang have to cook?"

Now it was Luke's turn to grin- an expression that was very nearly genuine.

"Well, not all of them. Being forced to work in the kitchen is a popular detention at Durmstrang. It was considered particularly humbling for students to have to work among the house elves."

Seth still looked puzzled. "But why?"

Inwardly, Luke cursed. He'd forgotten that thanks to the influence of the damned mudblood, these children didn't see house elves as inferior in any way. The pair that worked for the family lived in a house on the edge of the property that was almost as nice as Draco and Hermione's own home, albeit in miniature- and they were _paid_. He'd even been told that a couple of years back, Hermione had actually _lobbied_ to have the elves' only child, who was similar in age to Seth, enrolled in Hogwarts, for God's sake! It hadn't happened, but only because in the end the elves themselves had begged her to let the matter drop, citing the inherent differences between human and elfish magic, and the seven years of torment and ridicule sure to await their daughter at the wizarding school. Overall, the elfin family appeared to be more like dear old friends to Draco and Hermione than anything else. It was disconcerting, to say the least. He had to choose his next words with care.

"Well Seth," he said cautiously, "there are some people in wizarding society who feel that house elves are… "not exactly on par with human beings."

Seth's nose crinkled. "On what?"

Sweet, sodomizing Merlin. The boy's vocabulary- or lack thereof- was appalling. Clearly it was his older sister who had inherited the lion's share of the brains.

"A lot of wizards don't think elves are as good as they are," he began again, hoping that this version was dumbed-down enough to be understood by the boy. "They treat them like servants. Actually no; not just treat them; to a lot of wizards, house elves _are_ servants. That's why, at Durmstrang, some of the teachers liked giving kitchen duty as detention. It was humiliating for the students to work with, even to take orders from, the school's servants."

Seth was looking at him now with dawning comprehension, and indignation. Then his eyes narrowed. "_You_ don't think that way?" he demanded, "do you? Luke?"

Ugh. It was just sickening. He practically had to swallow back bile before answering. Nevertheless he managed to drag out, from somewhere, that winning grin again. Thank God he was just naturally talented at deception.

"I never said _everyone_ thought like that, Seth, even at Durmstrang. I _minded_ detention, all right- but I minded it because it was _detention_, not because I was working with elves. And anyway, like I said, I spent so much time with them that I became a pretty passable cook. Just give me half an hour and I'll prove it."

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Alone in the kitchen, Luke relished the solitude and silence; Draco was in the library, and Seth had gone back outdoors. He hadn't been lying about learning to cook at Durmstrang, and with the help of a little magic to speed things along, it was only moments before a large pot of deep red borscht was bubbling on the cooktop.

And now, as he prepared to dish up the meal, Luke hesitated- for the time had come for him to make his first decisive move since arriving here. Inserting himself smoothly into the family's life and routine had been the primary objective, and that had been accomplished beautifully; but now it was time to _act_.

Slowly, after peeking out the kitchen door and making absolutely sure that his chances of being interrupted were minimal, he pulled out from beneath his shirt a small leather pouch that hung from a thong he wore about his neck. Inside was a finely and very carefully ground powder that would have made Severus Snape's jaw drop. It had been concocted from the ingredients Luke had been collecting deep inside the Forbidden Forest just prior to his fateful encounter with the dragon, and was the fruit of hours and hours of secretive, painstaking labor. A good thing, as his mother frequently said, that he had such a strong, natural aptitude for potions-making; a talent, she assured him, that he had inherited from his father. The process of mixing powders was, of course, subtly different from that of potions-making, but in general the same principles applied, and the two skills went hand-in-hand.

Luke was entirely satisfied with his finished product.

There was precious little of it, but that was all right; it was powerful. Just the tiniest pinch sprinkled over Draco's food once a day should more than do the trick. It had to be a gradual process; Draco's magic made him far too strong to succumb all at once. Fortunately, Luke was a patient man. He'd been waiting to avenge his father, and do justice for his mother, all his life; he could wait a little longer. The accommodations were comfortable here, after all, if not quite on par with the manner in which he'd been raised.

He ladled up three bowlfuls of the hearty beet soup; it was the perfect means for getting Draco his first… _dose_. Before dipping his fingers into the little pouch, he did one final thing; closed his fist tightly around the pouch and quietly recited the words of an incantation. It was not, in fact, crucial to the powder's success; the powder would perform its task incantation or no. The spell would merely provide an extra, but extremely valuable, bonus. He allowed himself a trademark Malfoy smirk as he finally loosened the drawstring and dipped his fingers, just barely, into the soft, talcum-like substance he'd worked so hard to create.

It dissolved into the soup immediately, leaving no trace. Luke turned quickly toward the sink to wash his hands- he didn't want to allow even the tiniest, invisible trace of powder to come in contact with any of _his_ orifices. But then he stopped, eyeing the two remaining bowls.

Seth. That boy was _very_ annoying. Plus, he looked just like the mudblood, which made him easy to dislike. Luke was having a harder time with Ronnelle, who looked exactly like everything a Malfoy should be. He had to keep reminding himself that, in fact, that made her even _more _of an abomination than her brother. To possess the appearance, even the bearing, of a perfect pureblood- more than that, a perfect _Malfoy_, one of the proudest and most ancient bloodlines in all of wizarding society- and yet to be, in reality, so polluted… it was just disgusting, when one stopped to think about it.

But anyway, back to the task at hand-

If he were to give Seth the same amount of powder that he'd just put in Draco's food, the child would probably be dead by morning… and that wouldn't do. That was certain to disrupt the current, comfortable state of affairs he was counting on to complete the slow process of… _altering_… his brother. But if he were to just… dust his fingers off over Seth's bowl before washing them… now, that might work.

It would certainly give him a feeling of gratification, in any case.

So there was an unmistakable hint of smugness in his voice when he called his brother and nephew in to lunch. If either of them noticed it, however, they simply chalked it up to justifiable pride in the singularly delicious meal he'd managed to whip up on such short notice.

00000

(A/N: Sorry so short- grad school has started back up again, and with a vengeance! Two weeks in and I'm utterly swamped, with no end in sight until May. Still, I'm scribbling down my stories now and then in my notebooks during class, when I _really_ should be paying attention, and then transcribing them when I get home, so they are progressing… but slowly.

In answer to several people's questions, yes, of _course_ Ronnelle is named after Ron!)


	7. Falling

"Hermione, honestly, what _is_ the matter? Don't play games with me, I can see you're not yourself. It's plain as day. What's going on?"

Hermione sighed, put down the mug of steaming tea, picked up a finger sandwich, regarded it listlessly, put it back down on her plate. "I don't know, Gin. I really don't. I… it's just…" she made a vague gesture with one hand. "Something doesn't feel right… about this whole _Luke_ thing."

She dropped her head forward then, cradling her face in both her hands. It had been two weeks since she'd visited Ron's grave, and this was the first time she'd voiced her misgivings to anyone. "There, I've said it," she declared unhappily. "It's out. I'm a horrible wife! Draco's found his long-lost brother; he's ecstatic over it, and I… I just want him _out of my house!_ I want him gone. He hasn't even done anything I can put my finger on, but something about him gives me the heebie-jeebies, Ginny. I just… I just don't know what to do."

Across the table, Ginny sighed and gently detached a greedily suckling Lily from her breast. The baby fussed, but only for a moment. She was a good-natured child and had very nearly had her fill at any rate.

"Hermione, you need to talk to Draco about this," the redhead stated sensibly, tugging her blouse back down and settling Lily into a charmed bassinet which hovered, rocking itself slightly, just beside the table. 'There _is_ such a thing as women's intuition, you know. I _know_ you know that! If you feel this strongly about it, then for Merlin's sake, it's time for a heart-to-heart! He's your _husband_, Hermione, he _has_ to stand by you. Plus, let's not forget the fact that he loves you _insanely!_ Of _course_ he'll listen to you. I don't understand how you could think otherwise. Promise me you'll talk to him, _today_. I'm not letting you leave this house until you promise me."

It was Hermione's turn to sigh, yet at the same time she could feel something inside of her… easing with Ginny's words. Her feisty, no-nonsense friend was right, as usual; of course she was. It was time to talk this out. "All right, Gin," she said, "I'll speak to him tonight. You have my word. Just… let me ask one thing of you in return. Don't talk to Harry about this just yet, okay? Hopefully everything will be resolved by morning, and I don't want him to worry needlessly. There's no need to make him go all… well, all _Harry_, over nothing. Really."

Ginny frowned, looking dubious. "Well, all right, if that's really what you want, but-"

"It really is," Hermione said. "And I think it's time I got home; I need to think this through." She got to her feet. "I'm just going to-" she broke off abruptly, all of the color draining, almost instantly, from her face. She swayed dangerously, her face ashen, reaching out to steady herself against the table.

"_Hermione!_" Ginny shot up, alarm written all over her freckled face.

Hermione moved one hand slowly, almost dreamily, to press lightly against her stomach. "I'm sorry, Gin," she said faintly, "I just… am feeling… I think it must be something I ate."

"Bollocks!" Ginny ejaculated, "You _didn't_ eat anything! You just pushed your food around-" but before she could even finish her sentence Hermione had fled to the nearest bathroom and could be heard heaving violently on the other side of the door.

It was several moments before she emerged, barely composed and shaking slightly, weak in the aftermath of her sudden bout of nausea. And stopped abruptly, shocked disbelief registering on her face as she found herself staring at the business end of Ginny's wand, which was trained on her unwaveringly.

"How long have you been ill?" the redhead asked flatly.

"I… Ginny, what in God's name are you-"

"_How long have you been ill, Hermione?_"

"Merlin, Ginny, I don't know! It comes and goes. Three weeks, maybe four… it's just stress, I'm-"

"Stress my arse," Ginny said. "Hermione, how thick _are_ you?" And she rapped out a quick incantation, accompanied by an authoritative flick of her wand.

Soft white light burst from its tip, streaked toward Hermione and quickly enveloped her, swirling like a mist before centering upon her stomach. Both women stared at it, fascinated, as it began to change color, evolving swiftly from its original sterile white to a deep, vibrant, pulsing pink; an almost living hue. Then, a moment later, with another word from Ginny, it faded gently away.

Very slowly, in unison, the two women raised their eyes from where they had been riveted on Hermione's midsection, to once again meet one another's gaze. Hermione's lips were slightly parted, a stunned expression on her pale face.

"Nearly two months, if I'm not mistaken," Ginny said quietly. "And you mean to tell me you had no idea? Are you _kidding_ me?"

Hermione swallowed. Her lips formed words that might have been, _oh, my_. And then she sagged sideways against the bathroom doorframe, and slid slowly down it to the floor.

Ginny was there in an instant, gathering her into her arms and stroking her hair as Hermione let her head clunk down on her friend's shoulder, murmuring soft words that were for the longest time nothing more than a soothing- but entirely incomprehensible- buzz in Hermione's ears. Finally, as she began to gather her wits once more, she found herself slowly able to ascribe meaning to Ginny's words.

"-wonderful, Hermione, absolutely _wonderful! _I'm so happy for you! And oh, Draco! He'll be over the _moon! _Don't you worry, your secret's safe with me; Draco has an absolute right to know first. Oh Hermione, he's going to be ecstatic, and everything will be all right now, you'll see. This is providence, I'm sure of it…"

She trailed off as Hermione finally raised her head, pushing her hair back, out of her eyes. She was still too shocked to speak, but made a valiant attempt at a smile.

"You're still too pale, though," Ginny said, a corner of her lips quirking downward into a serious half-frown. "And if you think you're getting out of here without eating something, now that I'm aware of _this_, you can think again. Come on, we're going straight back to the table and-"

The back door, which let from the kitchen out into the garden, banged open just then to admit Harry, black hair tousled as ever, face flushed from the outdoors, green eyes sparkling with good humor- who took one look at the two women on the floor and froze, instant concern mounting in his features.

"What the devil are you two doing down _there?_" he demanded, crossing the room in a few quick strides and hunkering down beside them. He looked searchingly from his best friend to his wife. "Gin? Is everything okay?"

Ginny shot Hermione a lightening-quick glance, then said, "we're fine. We were just having a-" she made a one-handed gesture as she searched for the right word- "a feminine moment. Don't try to understand it, darling, you'll only frustrate yourself. Just be a dear and give us a hand up, all right?"

Harry's brows contracted and Hermione got the distinct impression that Ginny would be hearing more about this later… but she didn't for a moment think that her friend would give her away. He helped Ginny to her feet first, then extended a hand down to Hermione, pulling her up with ease. On impulse, she threw her arms around him and hugged him tight, inhaling the scent he'd carried in with him from playing Quidditch with the children- fresh air and oiled wood and leather and grass. It was an excellent strategy for dodging his gaze, which remained intense; seeking.

Faintly surprised, he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her right back, one hand going to the back of her head, holding it briefly against his shoulder before he gripped both of _her_ shoulders and pushed her- gently, but resolutely- back to arm's length. "Hermione?"

She couldn't avoid eye contact any longer. Raising her dark eyes to his jade-colored ones, she schooled her face into what she hoped was a steady, confident expression. "I'm all right, Harry," she said, raising a hand to cup his stubbly cheek against her palm. Stop worrying. _Really_. There's no need. Now, how are the children getting along?"

He stared her down a moment longer, but she didn't falter and finally, he relaxed. "They're fine," he said, disengaging from her at last. "Better off without me, I expect. I was a fifth wheel; now it's two on two, the way summer Quidditch was meant to be." He turned and made for the table, pausing to check on baby Lily, who was now snoozing contentedly in her bassinet. "I've worked up a bit of an appetite," he remarked; "were you two about to eat?"

"As a matter of fact," Ginny said, shooting Hermione a severely pointed look, "yes, we were."

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"YES!" shouted Chris jubilantly, punching the air for emphasis. "Score!" He and Ronnelle had teamed up against Matt and Seth, and he'd just managed to slip the Quaffle past his older brother's formidable defenses and score his first goal of the game. He sped toward Ronnelle who high-fived him, grinning broadly, then turned to look for her own brother, who was playing opposite her- well, what sort of big sister would she be if she didn't take this opportunity to gloat just a _little_ bit?

But when she saw Seth, the smile vanished instantly from her face.

He'd been unusually quiet the past couple of weeks, and increasingly pale and listless as well. Ronnelle had watched with mounting concern- both of her parents had been so preoccupied lately that they hadn't seemed to notice at all- and had asked him several times what was the matter, but he'd never been able to give her a satisfactory answer. He didn't seem to know himself. Today, though, he'd seemed genuinely excited about the game, and his energy level had appeared near normal, even just moments ago. But _now_-

He had pulled up his broom and was hovering, stationary, with an odd, vacant expression on his face. She called his name and he turned slightly toward the sound of her voice, but his eyes were blank; unseeing. A small furrow appeared between them, as though he were troubled by something, or thinking hard. He raised one hand slowly and pressed the heel of his palm against his temple. Then his eyes rolled up and without a sound he slipped sideways off his broom, and plummeted toward the ground.

"_SETH!_"

His name was ripped from her in a shriek, and instantly she was diving toward him, silvery hair streaming out behind her, but it was no good; she was too far away.

Fortunately, Matt was lower to the ground, closer to Seth than Ronnelle, and a superb flyer. He shot toward the falling boy in a blur of speed; it was nearly impossible to distinguish where the lean, dark-haired youth ended and the polished, streamlined wood of his racing broom began.

He caught Seth just feet from the ground, but was forced to sacrifice control of his broomstick in order to do so. Reaching out both-handed to grab the younger boy from the air, he abandoned the broom altogether, allowing it to shoot out from between his knees and spiral back to earth of its own accord. Matt, for his part, using the momentum he'd gained by pushing off from his broomstick, then twisted his body in the air- an amazing feat of agility- so as to fall the remaining few feet and land flat on his back, shielding Seth from the brunt of the impact.

Ronnelle touched down mere seconds later and only a few feet away. She threw herself toward Seth and Matt immediately, shouting over her shoulder, "Chris! Bring mum!" in a voice tinged with hysteria.

Matt was sprawled out on his back with Seth draped face-down across his chest, ragdoll-limp. As Ronnelle reached them, practically sobbing their names one after another, he released Seth from his grip and allowed his arms to fall flat out to either side. His dark green eyes were wide open and staring dazedly at the cloud-strewn sky. His body heaved, trying to drag back in the air that had been forcibly expelled upon impact. Ronnelle aided him in this by pulling Seth's weight off of him, but all of her attention was focused on her brother. Marginally comforted to see that Seth was breathing evenly, though still deeply unconscious, she turned his body in her arms, settling him across her lap as the three adults approached, now, at a dead run, with Chris at their heels.

"Mum!" she cried, barely coherent as Hermione, ashen, fell to her knees and pulled Seth into her arms, "it was like he passed out, but nothing had happened, mum, he wasn't hurt or anything! It just… I don't… he just let go of his broom and fell!"

Hermione could barely speak at all, crushing her son to her, stroking his hair and murmuring frantically, "Oh, my God, oh Seth honey, oh no, no no…"

Harry, face grim, bent and pulled Seth, gently but firmly, from her arms. "Hermione," he said with quiet intensity, "Hermione, listen to me. Are you hearing me? Hermione?" He waited until she focused on him before continuing, "I'm going to Apparate with him, side-along, to St. Mungo's. You're too upset; you'll splinch. You can floo right after us; I'll see you there."

And he vanished.

There was stunned silence for a moment, then Ginny pulled Hermione to her feet.

"Come on, you can floo from our kitchen. I'll get Draco and we'll meet you there." She pulled her toward the house, Hermione in what appeared to be a state of deep shock, moving like a sleepwalker Just before they vanished indoors Ginny turned around and shouted as an afterthought, "Matt, look after your brother! I'll take your sister with me. I don't know when we'll be back."

Matt managed a pained grunt and struggled up onto his elbows. Ginny, not noticing his difficulties in her distracted state of mind, disappeared inside with Hermione.

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Ronnelle, who'd been staring after her mother, blinked- shook her head slightly- seemed to rouse herself, not without effort, from a sort of daze of her own. Then her quartz-colored eyes settled on Matt's face, suddenly appearing to see- _really see_- him for the first time since he'd crashed to the ground with Seth cradled protectively in his arms.

"Matt…" she whispered in a cracked little voice.

"Uhm," he managed, wincing.

"You saved him," she said. "You saved my brother. Oh my God, he could have _died!_"

Matt was denied the opportunity to respond to this because an instant later, just as he was opening his mouth to reply, she literally hurled herself onto him; throwing her arms around his neck, sealing her lips to his, and knocking him, in the process, flat onto his back all over again.

He lay perfectly still and perfectly stunned beneath her for a long moment, just long enough for her euphoria to begin to subside, replaced by dawning horror at his lack of a response- what if he was actually seriously injured and un_able_ to respond? Or- oh lord no- what if he simply didn't _want_ to? That would almost be worse! Sweet Merlin, what was she _doing?_

It was just as she began to pull away, a deep flush of shame already rising to her cheeks, that he finally gathered his wits about him sufficiently to take action. And that action, when he took it, left no room for doubt or misinterpretation.

His arms flashed up with incredible speed, one snaking around her waist to hold her to him, the other plunging into her long hair, which was falling down around both of them like a silky silver curtain; his fingers splaying out against the back of her head, pulling her closer, deeper into the kiss.

They stayed that way for a long time, utterly ignoring the strident sounds of protest and disgust that were emanating from Chris all the while. It was only lack of air that forced them apart in the end. Overcome with shyness, Ronnelle buried her face in his shoulder.

"That was… nice…" she whispered a moment later, once she'd managed to catch her breath.

The arm that was draped about her waist tightened, squeezing her. "That… was _incredible_," he said, between breaths that were still somewhat harsh and unsure. (Was it because of his fall still, or because of the kiss? She had no way of knowing.) "I've wanted… to do that… forever."

Chris made a final, hearty, and extremely loud sound of disapproval, and stomped away, back toward the house. Ronnelle smiled, her lips curving gently against the warm, stiff material of Matt's flying leathers.

"Then why haven't we done it before?"

She felt him chuff a small laugh beneath her.

"I don't know," he said, "but I'm certain of one thing-" he pushed himself onto his elbows again and then rolled, taking her with him so that an instant later she was the one flat on the grass, white-blonde hair fanned out about her head- "I think it could be awfully fun, making up for lost time." He angled his head toward her but was brought up short when her hands flew up to his shoulders, pushing back against him.

"Wait," she said, blushing more deeply than ever- she was positively crimson, by Malfoy standards anyway- "does this mean that we… um… I mean to say… that we're…?"

"You bet your arse it does, Malfoy," he growled, before kissing her again.

00000

(Next chapter: Hermione confronts Draco head-on about Luke for the first (but not the last) time.)


	8. Confrontation

"Malfoy! _Malfoy! _Christ! What in the _hell_ just happened!?"

Footsteps were pounding toward him. Draco blinked dazedly up at the far white ceiling. What in the hell _had_ just happened? He'd been knocked on his arse, that was what – hard enough to make him very nearly black out. He flexed his arms and legs gingerly. There was no pain, but… this was not right. Not right at all.

He was at the Ministry. He'd been approached at his desk earlier in the day about testing out a new spell as a favor, something that was supposed to approximate the effects of Muggle gunpowder. The spell's inventors had wanted to use him as a test subject because his own magic made him – or was _supposed_ to make him – pretty damn near indestructible. He hadn't been knocked off his arse like this by… well, by _anything,_ since he'd been a teenager. So what the hell gave _now?_ Had it just been an astoundingly powerful spell? Or… was something the matter with… _him?_

It was enough to shake him right down to his foundations. He was going to have to see Severus about this. Today.

Then the spell's chief inventor was standing over him, looking ashen and offering him a hand up. He reached to take it – and in so doing, noticed Ginny entering the testing facility, looking harried.

His eyes locked with hers. And his stomach plunged.

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The hospital waiting room was mostly empty when Draco and Ginny reached it, so it was easy to pinpoint Harry and Hermione seated off in a semi-private corner, for all that they were half obscured by a large and rather listless potted plant. Harry was leaning back in his chair, head resting against the wall, looking drawn and tired, his arm draped around Hermione's shoulders. She was leaning into him, head resting on his chest, and her eyes were closed, silvery tear tracks clearly visible on her pale cheeks. Even so, she seemed to know, somehow- on some deep, instinctual level, perhaps- that her husband had arrived, because he hadn't made it even halfway across the room before her dark eyes snapped open and she sprang up and virtually launched herself into his arms.

They closed around her with breath-stealing, bone-jarring force and for a moment he just held her close in silence, one hand coming up to gently stroke her tumult of dark, disheveled hair. Then she disengaged, and he let loose with a barrage of questions.

"Hermione, what happened? How is he? _Where_ is he? What are they doing for him? What's going _on?_"

"I don't know," she said miserably, sounding as though she were choking back more tears. "I haven't seen him since I got here. The mediwizards won't let me."

Draco's hands clenched into fists, knuckles going white, and that calm-before-the-storm look settled over his face. "The bloody hell they won't," he said, voice quiet- dangerously so- glancing around for the nearest person unfortunate enough to look in any way official.

Ten minutes later, he and Hermione were in Seth's room.

00000

"I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy," said the young healer, very nearly wringing her hands together and looking _extremely_ nervous- as, judging by the expression on Draco's face, she had every right to be- "but so far all the tests have come up inconclusive. We simply don't know yet. The tests are being rerun even as we speak, and I can assure you that the results will be scrutinized most carefully. We've even called in experts from other facilities. We will let you know the instant any conclusions are drawn. In the mean time, please be assured that your son's condition has been stabilized, and if there's anything else that you require, don't hesitate to ring." She indicated a pull-cord dangling near the head of Seth's bed. "Your needs will be attended to immediately. Preparations are already being made for both of you to spend the night if you see fit; someone will be in to enlarge the room and provide the additional beds momentarily. Now if you'll excuse me- hopefully I'll be back quite soon with some definitive news."

She positively fled the room.

Draco sighed and raked a hand through his hair as Hermione sank down on the edge of Seth's bed, reaching out to clasp his nearer hand, which lay atop the coverlet, in both of her own. "He's cold," she said in a flat, emotionally exhausted voice.

Draco navigated around the bed and dropped into an armchair on the other side. He was still having a hard time wrapping his mind around this whole thing. When Ginny had come for him- Merlin, she hadn't even needed to say anything. Just the expression on her face had taken years off his life, he was certain. Had knocked the wind from his lungs as surely as any swift kick to the gut could have done. The thought that had jumped into his mind in that instant, as he'd felt his heart clenched in a fist of ice, had simply been, _Which one? Which one of them have I lost? _

Now he rubbed a hand over his face in a tired, downward motion, forehead to chin, and said, "Tell me again from the beginning. What happened exactly?"

Hermione shook her head. "I was inside visiting with Ginny, so I didn't see anything. The children were outdoors flying; Harry had been with them, but he'd come in only a moment before." She made an awful little hiccupping sound; the sound of a swallowed sob. "He said he was hungry. He was… Ginny… was… we were all about to eat, and then we heard Chris shouting." She shuddered, as if at the memory of it. "When I reached them, Seth was just… _lying_ there. Ronnelle was holding onto him. She said that he'd just let go of his broom and fallen. I don't understand it. I mean, he's a good flyer, everyone says so. I just… don't…" she trailed off, shaking her head.

"We'll figure this out," Draco said quietly, trying his damndest to infuse his words with a confidence, a steadiness, that he didn't actually feel. In truth he was shaken to the core, scared almost to death. He couldn't lose Seth. Sweet Merlin, he _couldn't_ lose Seth! It would kill him; both of them; _all_ of them. He was reminded suddenly, forcefully, of Cedric Diggory's death during his fourth year at Hogwarts. Of what it had done to Diggory's parents. He'd seen them from the stands, when Harry had arrived back with Cedric's body; their stunned incomprehension giving way to shocked disbelief and then the wild, frantic, impossible grief. He hadn't known what to make of it at the time; he'd never realized until that moment that it was possible- perhaps even normal?- for parents to love their children _that much_, and to display such love, and such sorrow, openly, unashamedly, for all the world to see. So, at a loss for how to react, he had turned his nose up at it; scoffed at their grief; considered it a sign of weakness. But even so something deep inside him had been reeling from the force of their anguish- so real, so raw; making him wonder, _is this how my parents would act if that were ME lying there? _ And he'd wanted to believe it in that moment… but he hadn't. His parents would never make a scene like that over him; never, in a million years.

What losing Seth- or Ronnelle either, for that matter- would do to _him_, though; it would destroy him, plain and simple. Like Molly and Arthur Weasley, the next set of devastated parents his mind conjured for him, picturing them with cruel clarity standing over Ron's grave on the day of the burial; barely able to hold themselves upright. Haggard; grey; appearing half-dead themselves. And they'd never been quite the same since; never _had_ been, never would be again, for all that their lives were still filled to the bursting with children, and now with grandchildren too; none of these would ever truly fill the void that had once been occupied by Ron.

"No," he said hoarsely, not even realizing that he was speaking aloud. "Not Seth. Not us. _No_."

"Draco?"

Hermione's voice jolted him back to the reality, the immediacy, of the hospital room. And then she said something that just about made his jaw come unhinged; something so completely unexpected under the circumstances that it absolutely floored him.

"I really think it's time that Luke moves on."

"Wait… erm…" he raked a hand distractedly through his hair, at a complete loss. "Hermione, _What?_"

"I um…" for a moment she hesitated, but then her hand tightened around Seth's and she pushed on. "Draco, it's time for Luke to move out. We can help set him up someplace nearby if you want, but he… he… I know he's your brother and… and you've got a lot of lost time to make up for – he doesn't have to go far, but… but he's…"

Draco was still staring at her, open-mouthed, over Seth's bed.

"Oh, God, Draco I'm sorry, but I just… I want… my home… and my family back."

Oh, no. Oh Merlin, no. That wasn't how she'd meant to blurt it out at all. It was the wrong thing to say; the dead wrong thing. She knew it the instant the words had passed her lips, as the uncomprehending surprise on Draco's face turned, for just a fraction of a second, to hurt – and then to anger.

His voice was almost shaking with it when he spoke. "You're saying this to me _now_, Hermione? You choose _now_, with Seth unconscious in a hospital bed, to bring this up with me? Have you lost your bloody mind? And your _appalling_ sense of timing aside, what you're asking is out of the question. Luke _is_ my family, and that makes him yours too, whether you like it or not. And I can't – _believe_ – you'd just… just spring something like this on me! What in God's name could you possibly have against Luke? Have you forgotten already that he saved our son's _life!?_ Nearly _killed_ himself doing it – I owe him a life debt for that, Hermione! I will _not_ throw him out of my house – not now, not ever. That you could even suggest it just… astounds me."

"Draco, stop! Look, um… that didn't come out right. But I just – haven't you even noticed how tense things have become since he arrived!? There's something about this that just… doesn't feel _right_ to me. I can't pin it down just yet, but please believe me, something's wrong. My nightmares, they arrived when Luke did, and now _this_-"

Draco's voice, quiet as it was, cut through her words like a knife. "_Are you blaming Luke for THIS?_"

"I… no… I just… God, Draco, I don't know. I just know that something's not right. Something's not right and I… shit, sweetheart, I'm scared."

He looked at her for a long time; looked at her almost as if he'd never seen her before. Then he got to his feet. "I honestly can't believe what I'm hearing. In some completely sick, twisted way, you _are_ blaming Luke for this – it couldn't be any clearer. Christ, Hermione, you… what in the hell are you… he was _miles away_." He stopped, took a deep breath, paced to the end of Seth's bed and back. Then, "Jesus, I hardly feel like I _know_ you anymore. I married an intelligent, rational woman and now you… you sound like some frightened, superstitious _child_. I don't know what's the matter with you, but… but I can't be here right now. I need to… to find Ronnelle… _and Luke_, and tell them what's going on. I'll be back… I don't know. When I can stand to look at you again, I suppose."

And he made for the door.

His words left her absolutely reeling; as shocked and devastated as if he had struck her a physical blow. She had never expected him to attack her like _this_, never in a million years. It hadn't even occurred to her that he was capable of… of _saying_ such vicious things. Not to her; not after all their happy years together; not _now_, when she needed his love and support so desperately. Her throat closed up so fast and tight that it was all she could do to choke out, "Draco, wait, oh please, you don't understand. I'm-"

"-A selfish little ingrate, I understand that perfectly," he spat out, hand on the doorknob. "Don't talk to me right now, Hermione. Just don't." Then he was gone.

"-Pregnant," she whispered after him, as the door clicked shut with a grim finality. He didn't hear.

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(A/N: Gosh. Okay. It's been a _loooong_ time, I know. And it's a pretty short chapter, I know. But hopefully it helps set things up for the SHITE STORM which I know _you_ know is coming (evil grin!) Anyway, anyone who bothers reviewing this late, short chapter will prove herself (or himself, I don't discriminate!) a lovely, generous, patient and forgiving person! Thanks a bunch…)


	9. Catalyst

"_NOOOO!_"

She bolted straight upright, drenched in cold sweat, shaking like a leaf. Her nightclothes, even the sheets, were pasted to her body. "No, don't touch me, don't… don't touch…" she gulped in a deep, unsteady, nearly painful breath. She'd never had a dream like this before. She didn't even fully comprehend what had been happening to her, such was the innocent, sheltered life she'd led thus far – but it had been horrendous, and degrading, and painful. She'd felt exposed, and violated, and… _why_ would she dream such a thing? What could it possibly mean?

She'd drawn her knees up to her chin without consciously being aware of doing so – now she wrapped her arms round her legs and buried her face in her nightie, curled into the most tightly contained, protected little ball she could manage, rocking slightly in a completely unconscious effort to soothe and regulate herself.

"…'Nell?"

She started violently, gasping, very much on edge in the wake of her nightmare – she hadn't heard the door open. Seth stood uncertainly in the doorway, one hand on the knob, the other on the frame, backlit by the dim light filtering in from the hallway, his dark hair a stick-uppy mess. He'd spent nearly a week in St. Mungo's; had been home, now, for three days. The healers never had reached any firm conclusion about just what it was that had afflicted him. Draco was beside himself with fury over this; Hermione, exhausted; haggard-looking, withdrawn. Seth himself was paler than usual and rather more subdued as well, but otherwise seemed more or less himself.

He yawned.

"I heard you yelling." His voice was slurry with sleep. "You 'kay?"

Oh God, Seth. She had to get a hold of herself. She didn't want him to see her this shaken, and Merlin, she could never explain to him the reason for it, the absolute horror of her nightmare; she'd rather die.

She took a deep, bracing breath, composing herself by force of will. "I'm okay," she said then, trying for a casual, dismissive tone of voice. "I just had um… kind of a rotten dream." She patted the edge of her bed. "What're you doing up anyway, huh? How do _you_ feel?"

He padded over, his dark eyes fixed seriously on her face. "You're crying, Ronnelle," he observed, completely ignoring her deflective questions as he settled down beside her. "What did you dream?"

She swiped quickly, almost guiltily, at her leaking eyes with the back of her hand. "I uh…" she shot him a faltering smile, stalling for time while her mind raced. Aha – she knew what would throw him off track; the perfect way to gross out a twelve-year-old. By subjecting him to the idea of his big sister's romantic inclinations, of course. Seth, upon hearing from Chris Potter, during a hospital visit, that their respective older siblings were now an "item", had been every bit as disgruntled about it as his best friend. Hopefully Ronnelle could now use this to her advantage.

"I dreamt it was the Yule Ball and Matt took Kelly Chau," she said, reflexively naming the bitchiest Slytherin girl in her year – which was no small feat, considering the Slytherin girls in her year. "I caught them snogging at the punch table. Then I looked down and instead of dress robes I was wearing my Quidditch leathers. It was just awful."

She shot him a grin that was very nearly genuine, pleased with her own ingenuity, but just a glance at his face told her he wasn't buying it. Not a bit of it.

"Bollocks," he said flatly. "Rubbish, Ronnelle."

She gave a laugh that was practically a sob, managing to wrap an arm around his shoulder at the same time. "I'm glad you know me so well. Seth… erm… what do you think about Luke?"

He went quiet for a long time, mulling this over in his careful way. Then he shrugged. "He's okay, I reckon. But sometimes I'm not sure. He really creeps mum out, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, I think he does. I'm worried about her. She's been… different… for days. I've never seen her like this before."

Seth nodded pensively. "No, me neither. Ronnelle, do you think –"

"Well, well," drawled an amused voice from the doorway. "Is this a private party, or is there room for one more?"

Seth cut off abruptly as he and Ronnelle turned, startled, toward the newcomer. Luke was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a rumpled grey tee-shirt and blue-grey sweatpants slung low across his hips. With his sugar-white, sleep-tousled hair, he looked more like a teenaged Draco than either Seth or Ronnelle could possibly know.

The friendly humor in his voice and eyes seemed genuine. But something about his presence there sent a cold shiver down Ronnelle's spine nonetheless.

Perhaps it was simply the fact neither one of them had heard him approach. How long had he been there, anyway?

Or perhaps it was the shreds of her nightmare lingering around her still. Whatever the reason, Merlin help her, Ronnelle was just a little bit… spooked.

The way that Seth tensed against her suggested that perhaps he was, as well.

She swallowed and ran a hand through her own Malfoy-white hair; forced a smile. "Luke… um… hey. I was just about to walk Seth back to his room. I'm sorry, did we wake you talking?"

He shook his head and yawned. "Nah, I was going for a glass of water. You want –"

"What on earth is going on here?"

Again Ronnelle started at the interjection of yet another unexpected voice into the conversation. This time it was with an undeniable, if not entirely explicable, surge of relief that she said, "Mum?"

Hermione had appeared in the doorway beside Luke, clad in a pale green chenille dressing gown, and was looking between the three of them suspiciously.

She looked as if she hadn't slept in days, and this was more or less true. She was still haggard with worry over Seth, and the chill that had entered her relationship with Draco that day at St. Mungo's was hardly helping matters.

While Seth had been hospitalized, she'd spent every night on a cot by his side. The first night he'd been home she had spent, likewise, in his room. Since then, due in no small part to Seth's own rather vocal insistence, she'd returned to her own bed – only to find herself its sole occupant. Draco had taken to sleeping in the library, and the two of them had barely spoken a full sentence to each other in a week's time. When they did speak, it was only to circle each other warily with their words, saying little of any meaning or consequence. The subject of Luke's presence in the house, and of Hermione's misgivings about him, was not brought up again.

On the rare occasions that she did surrender herself to sleep, alone in the over-large bed, Hermione was invariably awakened by her nightmares, which were back in force. After managing to get herself back under control, which was a feat unto itself, she would spend the rest of the night awake, much of the time padding barefoot through the house with a steaming mug of tea in hand, feeling on some deep, instinctual level that _someone_ needed to be standing guard over her home and family, and so it was all down to her. This was exactly what she was doing at the moment, in fact, having awoken from a nightmare of her own at almost the same time as Ronnelle.

All this and being pregnant too – a condition she still had not disclosed to her now-estranged husband – and it was small wonder she looked a wreck.

"We're fine, mum," Ronnelle said quickly. "Seth… um… had a bad dream – _umph!_ –" she glared sideways at her brother, who had just elbowed her, hard, in the ribs – "and I was about to walk him back to his room. Luke, I think, was thirsty."

"Still am," Luke said genially. "I'm off to the kitchen; then back to bed. 'Night, all." He ambled off down the hall.

"Mum," Seth put in, "what're you –"

But Hermione just sighed, ran a hand distractedly through her hair, and said, "Seth, come on love, I'll take you back to bed."

The two siblings shared a lightning-quick look of misgiving – something was patently not right with their mother these days. Even though Draco and Hermione took care to shield the children from the brunt of their current marital… _issues_ – (he always retired after they did, and rose before them, so that they'd have no clue as to his and Hermione's new "sleeping arrangements") – the tension in the house was thick enough to cut with a knife. Seth and Ronnelle, who were both rather observant anyway, would have been hard pressed to miss it.

Any attempt made by either of them, though, to broach this subject with one or the other of their parents, was quickly and summarily rebuffed. Not unkindly, but with finality.

Such was the state of affairs in the Malfoy house these days.

With a sigh of his own, Seth got up, bade Ronnelle good night, and followed Hermione obediently down the hall.

00000

Alone once more, Ronnelle sank back against her pillows, but sleep was elusive now. Seth's warm, solid presence next to her had banished the shivers that had wracked her upon awakening, and had calmed her breathing and heart rate, but now, in the dark silence of the room, tattered remnants of her ugly dream returned, to skitter and prance at the edges of her consciousness, taunting her.

She lay there for a long time; her silvery eyes – (her father's eyes) – wide open in the dark, staring up at the ceiling. Then she sat up again, tossing her light summer blankets aside, and went to her desk.

The desk sat beneath her window, and there was enough light here, from the nearly full moon, to write by without even so much as a _Lumos_. Taking up a piece of parchment and a quill, left-handed like her father, she wrote out a single line of script – a question – then sealed the parchment and turned to her owl, whose cage sat at the edge of the desk. Unlatching the cage door, she whispered, "Take this to Matt. But for Merlin's sake, be discreet. Don't wake his parents, all right?" The stately animal blinked sagely at her and extended a foot. A moment later she was watching it take flight, through the now-open window and into the night sky.

00000

Back in his own room, Luke paced.

He was doing some serious thinking. His plan to tear Draco's family apart from the inside was obviously working – and even more quickly than he had anticipated. Truth be told, he wasn't completely ready to move into the final phase of his plan yet, but it seemed as if that decision had been taken out of his hands.

The thing with the boy – his hospitalization – had really been the catalyst, Luke reflected. He supposed, in hindsight, that he had been a bit… overenthusiastic… with that whole business. He should have simply concentrated his efforts on Draco, leaving the boy out of it until the end. It was hardly the _boy_ who required weakening, after all – he was only a child; and a soft, sheltered one, at that. He was the last member of the family that Luke anticipated any trouble from, when the time came. And yet now, because of the boy, his whole timeframe was going to need stepping up – and he really would have liked to have had a week or two more to prepare.

The effects of the poison Luke had been slipping Seth, in almost microscopic doses, had subsided while the boy had been hospitalized, and Luke hadn't given him anything further since he'd arrived home. Best not to rock the boat any more just at present; he would capsize the whole damn rotted-out thing soon enough, but in the mean time he had preparations to make.

Still and all, though, he'd already done himself some damage by landing Seth in St. Mungo's in the first place. It had sent the household into an absolute uproar, and had nearly sent the mudblood over the edge. Not that Luke minded her obviously unraveling sanity, as such… no, that was actually quite a nice little bonus. He had only intended to drive a wedge between Draco and his wife, something useful he could manipulate when the time came – but if the high-strung little bitch wanted to go stark raving nutters over it, then who was he stop her? It was amusing, if nothing else.

But it was also just a tad bit inconvenient; especially the fact that she was working the entire family into a state of constant high agitation right along with her. Even the children were getting squirrelly. Things were going to reach the boiling point very quickly now, Luke predicted, and he needed to be ready to take advantage of the volatile situation at any moment.

And anyway, he was confident that his brother had been weakened enough by now that he could move ahead with his plans, with little fear of repercussions. Draco might still be able, at this point, to raise enough resistance to make Luke's task just a tad bit more demanding than he might have preferred, but what the hell – there was no doubt in Luke's mind that he would succeed, and seeing Draco struggle in vain would only make his victory that much sweeter in the end.

Yes, it was time to get this show on the road. Tomorrow he'd enter the third and final phase of his plan. Which meant he had a notification to make – an invitation, as it were, to issue.

Running a hand through his near-colorless hair, he turned decisively toward the desk. And, just as Ronnelle had a few moments before, he sat down and began to write.

00000

A pale and watery dawn was just streaking the horizon, and Ronnelle had fallen into a fitful doze right at her desk, head cushioned on her folded arms, when she started awake yet again, with a gasp, to find Matt Potter hoisting himself through her still-open window. His wind-whipped hair was even more of a disaster than usual, he was shaking with a combination of cold and adrenaline, and his expression in the dim light was grim.

"Matt," she whispered, stunned, shooting to her feet – and a heartbeat later was engulfed in his arms; crushed against him so hard that she could scarcely breathe.

He was absolutely _freezing_.

"Matt," she managed to exhale into his chest, "what on _earth_ –?"

"Are you all right?" he cut her off, voice tight. "Ronnelle, are you okay?"

She pulled back just a fraction; enough to catch her breath – and catch _his_ eyes. They were dark and intense and… and full of… full of what? _Fear?_

"Matt, what are you –"

"_This!_" he practically shouted, pulling a rumpled parchment from his pocket. It was, of course, the note she'd sent off to him mere hours before. "Merlin's ghost, Ronnelle, I've never flown so fast! _Are you okay?_ And if you are, then what in God's _name_ could have possessed you to scare me like that!?"

"Oh Matt," she whispered, stricken. "Oh Matt, I'm sorry. I never thought you'd react this way."

His hands clenched, crumpling the parchment further.

"Then I would like you," he said, in a taut, constrained voice, "to tell me just exactly how the _fuck_ I'm supposed to react to something like this. Because if this isn't the right way, then damnit Ronnelle, I sure as hell don't know what is."

She sank slowly backward into her chair; dropped her face forward into her hands. She felt Matt drop to one knee in front of her. A second later, he had her by the shoulders.

"Ronnelle." He gave her a little shake. "_Ronnelle_. Talk to me. Are you really okay? _Have you been hurt?_"

She shook her head without looking up – then, a long moment later, finally dropped her hands and raised her eyes to his. "I had a dream," she whispered. "That's all it was, but I… it seemed so _real_ and then… suddenly I just felt like… like I had to know what you would do if… but I never expected you to nearly _kill_ yourself getting here, it was only hypothetical, I just thought you'd owl me back –" she tried for a laugh but managed only a strangled sort of sob instead – "I'm so, so sorry, Matt."

"God, Ronnelle." He let go of her shoulders now and ran both of his hands distractedly through his hair. "You can't know what that did to me, even the thought of it… I mean, you must _know_ what I'd do; you _must_. Even if I weren't –" he paused; swallowed hard – "even if I weren't dead in love with you, I can't remember a time that you weren't my best mate. The thought of you hurt rips me to pieces – and that's exactly what I'd do to _anyone_ who deliberately harmed a hair on your head. Ronnelle, I'd fucking _kill_ him. And between your father and Seth, and – shit – my father too, for that matter, I'd probably have to stand in line to do it. But I _would_ do it. I'd kill him, okay? Is that what you needed to hear?"

"I don't know," she whispered miserably. She squeezed her eyes shut; twin tears slid down her cheeks.

He raised both his hands to frame her face, wiping her tears away with his thumbs; then pulled her down until their foreheads clunked together. "Please, please tell me. Are you really… truly… all right?"

She swallowed hard and nodded, eyes still closed.

"Who was it?" he asked. "Who hurt you? In your dream?"

She let her head drop to his shoulder, and shook it. "I don't know. He didn't – in my dream, he didn't have a face."

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in tighter. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry you dreamed that. And I'm glad I came. I'll always come. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," she said, lifting her head and pressing the heels of both hands hard against her eyes. "I know, Matt. Thanks. Um…" she tried for a smile; managed to produce a reasonable, if shaky, approximation, and then reached out, pressing her palm to his cheek. "God, Matt, you're _so cold_. And you can't just turn around and go home. Are you hungry?"

He smiled back. "I'm bloody starving. And it's light out. And I don't relish the thought of your father opening the door to check on you and finding me in here. I'd feel much safer in a common part of the house. Should we get an early start on breakfast for your family?"

"My family," she echoed, her eyes clouding again.

"Ronnelle?"

She forced another smile. Matt didn't need to hear about her family-related fears and anxieties just at the moment. He needed to warm up, and eat something. "I think they'd like that," she said. Seth certainly would, at any rate – he was the only one she was sure of anymore. "And you're right about my dad – if he found you in here, I doubt he'd wait for an explanation. We _should_ get to the kitchen. Um, and Matt? Thank you for coming. And I – I love you, too."

He pulled her to her feet and they indulged in a brief kiss before heading for the kitchen. As her hand closed around the doorknob, she tried very hard to banish her still-lingering misgivings. Matt had come – he'd thought she might be in danger and he'd dropped everything to come, in the middle of the night, freezing himself half to death in the process. And then there was what he'd said about her dad, and Seth, and even Uncle Harry. It was true, of course. She was safe, and protected, and surrounded by love.

So why wouldn't the dream stop troubling her?

She knew the answer – she just wanted to pretend that she didn't; to push it away. But she couldn't; it came right back every time she closed her eyes, even for a second.

She'd told Matt that the tormenter of her dream had had no face, and that was true. But she hadn't been able to bring herself to mention what she _had_ recognized – his hair.

That had been, perhaps, the most horrifying thing of all.

Because he'd had hair like her own.


	10. Explosion

Draco woke early that fateful morning, to the smell of breakfast wafting out from the kitchen. Groggy, puffy-eyed and disoriented, there was a dull, thudding headache pounding behind his temples from a bit too much Firewhisky imbibed sullenly and alone the previous evening; and his limbs were cramped and stiff from yet another night spent on the library couch. He could, of course, have easily transfigured the couch into a bed, but had repeatedly failed to do so, feeling on some deep level that these awful, achy, bleary mornings were a justly deserved punishment for the crime of abandoning his marriage bed – something he had _never_ done before these past few, miserable days.

He was lying on his back, one arm flung over his face, shielding his eyes from the light streaming in through the library's windows – this room, not normally intended for sleeping, lacked the heavy drapes that filtered the morning light in his bedroom. With a groan, he sat up, his bare back peeling, unpleasantly, away from the leather of the sofa. He'd slept in only his jersey-knit pajama bottoms, but had still become overheated in the night, judging by the way he was sticking to the leather. Ugh.

Swinging his feet onto the floor, he planted his elbows on his knees and dropped his face into his hands, fingers clenching in his tousled, silver-white hair. He sat this way for a long time, then dropped one hand to the coffee table, groping blindly for the tee-shirt he'd discarded when lying down the night before.

Draco Malfoy was not a happy man.

Something needed to be done.

He didn't understand how Hermione could turn on him like this, demanding the expulsion from their home of not only the person who'd saved Seth's life, but his own long-lost brother, whom he was only just beginning to know and enjoy on a personal level.

Yes, there were _two_ incredibly compelling reasons that he was absolutely not going to toss Luke out on his ear; he'd saved Seth, and he was blood. Each of which was strong enough on its own, let alone in combination. And the fact that Hermione had asked him to, in all seriousness and fully aware of all of this, felt like a tremendous betrayal by his wife.

It had hurt. In fact, bugger _had_; it still hurt. It hurt like hell. And the _time_ she'd picked to go and raise the issue – over their unconscious son's hospital bed, for _Christ's sake_ – what in the hell was the matter with her lately, anyway?

He was angry with her. Really, _really_ angry with her. But they couldn't go on like this. This was torture. Actually, it was killing him. And she wasn't looking so good either these days. In fact, it looked like she was making herself _sick _over this, and that wasn't what he wanted either. For Merlin's sake, it wasn't as if he didn't love the woman, as infuriating as she could sometimes be – she was his… his… _soul_, the person who had _taught_ him about love in the first place. He would do _anything _for her… anything except give up his only brother – the only blood relative he had left, who had fallen into his life from the clear blue sky like a… a gift. And it just staggered him that she could be selfish enough to ask him to.

But this little… dance of avoidance they'd entered into could not be sustained any longer. They had to face this thing head on, and talk through it.

His hand closed around the wadded fabric of the slate-blue shirt and he pulled it over his head. He got it on inside-out the first time and had to redo it, swearing vehemently under his breath as he yanked it off and then back on again, his hair now crackling with static electricity. It was only a small frustration, but small frustrations loomed large when his marriage was suffering. He just wasn't himself without Hermione; he needed her in order to _be_ himself; to be whole.

The kids should still be in bed, but he had a feeling that _she_ was probably up and about. She'd been sleeping less even than he had himself of late. In fact, he was pretty sure he could hear her moving about in the kitchen. It was time to find her and hash this out, right now. And after that, he was going to track down Severus and ask the older man's opinion on what might have happened to him in the Ministry, the day Seth had been hospitalized. He'd meant to go to Severus right then, until Ginny had appeared in the testing room wearing that expression that would haunt his most troubled dreams for the rest of his life – everything had changed in a heartbeat, then. Then it was all about Seth.

But not so anymore. Seth was recovering from whatever mystery ailment had struck him, and Draco once again had the luxury of time on his hands to spend worrying about something other than his son.

To wit, his own magic.

Something was going on with it – again.

And that was scary. There had been several months there, at the end of his seventh year at Hogwarts, during which he had been forced to live without any magic whatsoever – to live as a Squib – unsure of whether any magical ability would ever return to him at all. With the single glaring exception of holding Hermione's lifeless body on the front steps of the Hogwarts castle the day he'd rescued her from Malfoy Manor (some rescue – she'd bloody well _died_ on him –) those months had been the absolute lowest point of his life.

He had no desire to revisit them.

Oh, his "ordinary magic" was just fine, thank you. (So far.) He could apparate, conjure, transfigure, what have you, with no problems whatsoever. It was the deeper, more ingrained stuff – the reflexive, and incredibly powerful, magic that he barely needed to even consciously think about – his "essential magic," as he'd mentally dubbed it when it had first materialized within him at the age of seventeen, nearly ripping him apart with its force until he'd learned to control it – that seemed to be abandoning him now.

The first sign had been, of course, the fact that he'd been knocked on his arse that day at the Ministry. There had been others since. He could no longer touch the consciousness of others, for one thing. He'd tried it with Luke not long after Hermione had implied that his brother may have had something to do with Seth's sudden illness – that "everything had gone wrong" since he'd come into their lives. He'd hated himself for invading Luke's privacy that way, hated it _hated it_, but he'd felt a driving need to discredit Hermione's outrageous allegations once and for all. It had all come to naught, though, in the end, because he hadn't been able to 'see' anything. Wondering if, perhaps, the students at Durmstrang were taught some sort of blocking technique – something that had never been introduced at Hogwarts (for everyone knew that certain… fundamental differences… existed between the curriculums of the two schools) he had tried it again, this time on Hermione, while she'd slept fitfully on the first night she had Seth had been home from St. Mungo's. But he'd fared no better.

Luke wasn't blocking, he'd realized with a shock – it was him, _Draco_ – he'd lost the ability. He felt a cold, sick wave of… _something_… something disturbingly akin to foreboding… wash over him at the thought. Yes, he needed to seek counsel from Severus – today.

But first things were first.

He was long overdue for a talk with his wife.

00000

He was still groggy as he stumbled into the kitchen, making straight for the icebox and the carton of fresh orange juice he knew was there. It wasn't until he'd downed a tremendous swig of it, straight from the container, that he trusted himself to speak.

"Hermione," he said hoarsely, not bothering to turn around, "we need to talk."

And was astonished to hear not his wife's, but his daughter's voice from behind him.

"Erm, dad? I think mum's still in bed. And… we have, um, company."

"Ronnelle?" He spun on his heel almost guiltily, orange juice carton still in hand. "What are you doing out of bed so early?" And then, a heartbeat later – "_Matt?_"

He liked Matthew Potter. Really, he did. He even approved of Ronnelle seeing him – inasmuch as he was capable of approving of his only daughter seeing _anyone_. Still in all, though, this was hardly an appropriate time of day for the boy to be in the company of his daughter – even in as innocuous a setting as the family kitchen. (God _help_ him if Draco had discovered the two of them anywhere else in the house.) His pale eyes narrowed.

"Matthew Potter, _what_ – " he began, but lapsed into silence as Hermione really did enter the kitchen. She looked like – Merlin, he hardly knew what… she nearly looked deranged. She was pale as a sheet, dark smudges of fatigue marring her tightly drawn face; sleep-wild hair escaping a loose, haphazardly constructed knot at the base of her neck.

Her eyes, though – her eyes were blazing. And she held a crumpled parchment clutched in her fist, held it as though… as though it was her last lifeline.

Her last lifeline to what?

To _sanity_, it looked like.

He felt his heart give a sick, miserable lurch.

_This had gone on too far. Too bloody far by half._

"Hermione – "

She seemed to start at his voice, her glazed eyes taking a second to focus on him. There was no question that she was _not well_. He frowned. Ronnelle should not be seeing this, much less Matt Potter, who wasn't even a family member. Close, yes – as close as anyone and closer than most, but still.

" 'Nell," he said, "Matt, could you give us – "

"Out," Hermione said then, interrupting him, "do you hear me, Draco? Out of my house, today."

Draco's teeth clenched. God, there was the anger again, washing over him in a wave – he hadn't realized how close to the surface it had been. But he made an attempt at self-control, for Ronnelle's sake.

"Hermione," he gritted out –

"_No_."

He was mildly surprised to register that she sounded every bit as furious as _he_ felt. She couldn't actually think she was in the _right_, could she??

_That bitch_.

No – _no!_ He was not going to give in to this. She was in the wrong and he was in the right, but damn it, beneath it all he loved her and he was not going to give _in_ to this. This raw, simmering, volatile emotion. Rational logic had always been the way through to her in the past. He sucked in a breath, collecting his thoughts, but she derailed him _again_.

"Out of my house. _Today_."

Seth entered the kitchen now, before Draco could reply, yawning hugely; apparently roused by all the voices. Tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed, he made a beeline for Draco and seized the carton of orange juice from his hand, swigging deeply exactly as his father had a moment ago. This was a habit in both father and son that drove Hermione absolutely bonkers – when she was herself. She was not herself this morning, however; she didn't even register it. Her hand, clenched around the parchment, was shaking.

Again, Draco tried to steer the children out of the line of fire of what he could tell now would surely be a battle – one that had been brewing for weeks.

"Ronnelle. Would you take your brother – "

"This letter is from Durmstrang." Hermione's voice cut in, low and flat. And dangerous. "Luke was no scholarship student, Draco, and no orphan. These are his school records, all seven years, I sent for them three days ago. They've only just arrived."

This sent Draco reeling, completely forgetting the three wide-eyed adolescents that were now regarding them intently.

"Hermione, you did _what?_ On whose authority? And why in Merlin's name would they release them to _you?_"

"My name _is_ Malfoy," she pointed out in a dry, but utterly humorless, tone. "Of course they released them to me. Draco, his tuition was paid in full and on time, all seven years. Over and above that, several lavish donations were made to the school while he was in attendance. Though no name is attached to them, the donations themselves are attached to his records, which strongly suggests that they were made by a benefactor of Luke's. Draco –" and her voice was rising now, rising, approaching the brink of hysterics – "when he was made Quidditch Captain the entire team was gifted with brand new, top-of-the-line broomsticks. Does that sound at all _familiar to you?!?_" And now she truly was shouting.

Draco felt as if a Bludger had just hit him in the gut. Knocked all the air right out of the room. It couldn't be true. _Could_ it? No. Of course not. Hermione was seeing what she wanted to see – seeing only evidence that would support her case.

_Fabricating_ evidence that would support her case. She must be. The alternative was simply…

Unacceptable.

"Bollocks," he said brusquely. "Frankly, Hermione, this behavior is beneath you. Sneaking about, prying into others' affairs like some… some common little…" he could hardly think of a fitting enough insult. It didn't matter – she looked as if he'd slapped her anyway, her mouth parting with shock and disbelief – disbelief that he wasn't playing right into her hands, falling for her lies. He felt a savage sort of satisfaction at the hurt in her face as she registered that _no_, he didn't believe her after all. She looked so vulnerable in that instant, so… young.

The parchment slipped from her fingers, wafted to the floor. She almost looked, in that moment of stunned incredulity, of exquisite vulnerability, as if she might faint.

And it was as if the room lurched under his feet.

What was he doing? Merlin help him, what in the hell was he _doing? _Taking pleasure in hurting his wife, whom he was supposed to love with every fiber of his being? With his children, both his children, looking on in horror? God help him, this was so wrong, so _wrong_.

He ran both hands through his hair, pressed his eyes shut for a long moment. A slow count of five, and then five more. De-fusing. Or trying to, at any rate. Trying damn hard. And where _was_ Luke, anyway? Thank God _he_, at least, was not a witness to this appalling scene. Wherever he was, Draco prayed that, at least for the time being, he stayed there.

He didn't see Hermione sway on her feet, press one hand protectively to her stomach even as she groped with the other for the counter, for support. He didn't see Ronnelle draw infinitesimally closer to Matt, and Seth to Ronnelle, as if seeking shelter from this sudden and completely unexpected storm – neither one had ever witnessed a fight like this between their parents.

He opened his slate-colored eyes only when he felt he had a decent handle on himself, and that he'd hit upon a somewhat acceptable course of action to follow. "Look," he said, "Hermione, there's something I have to see Severus about. I think we could both use some time to… collect ourselves, anyway. We'll talk more about this tonight, in _private_."

This said, and assuming the matter closed, for the moment anyway, he began to turn away. Hermione's voice, when she spoke, caught him off-guard because it was so quiet – so quiet and… _sad_. Defeated. Utterly unlike her.

Or no, worse. Like a _different_ her – the miserable, traumatized, wreck of a Hermione he'd known during his seventh year at Hogwarts. (_The Hermione he'd often wanted to shake until her teeth rattled, God help him._)

"You won't see." Her words were little more than a whisper. "Oh, Draco. My God. I'd never have believed… but you won't. You've made a choice, and you won't _see_."

His teeth clenched. His fists clenched. She was laying the guilt on thicker than marmalade (_manipulative little bitch!_) but they were done with this conversation, damnit. _Done_.

He turned slowly back to face his wife. His eyes were like ice, now. His _voice_ was like ice. "We are not talking about this, Granger – "

"Oh, yes." Her voice was as quiet as before, but it cut through his like a knife. "We are. Your _brother_ – " she practically spat the word – "is here under false pretenses. Something is going on, something wrong, something _evil_, and I'm not going to wait around to find out what it is, not with my children at stake. If Luke doesn't leave today, then the rest of us _do_."

And it was Draco's turn to gawp, stunned.

Leaving him? She was _leaving_ him? _She_ was leaving _him??_

He could. Not. Have heard that right.

But Hermione was turning away from him now, to address the silent, shocked children. "Seth, Ronnelle, go and pack a few things, just a single bag each, and be quick about it. Matt, be a dear and floo home, ask your mum if we can impose upon her hospitality for a few days. We won't be far behind you. You can use the fireplace in – "

"NO."

Draco barely recognized his own voice; he was very nearly snarling now. "No one. Is going. Anywhere." He crossed the few feet that separated him from his wife and gripped Hermione by the arm, hard. _She'd_ been the one who had dragged the children into this mess; _he'd_ been trying to keep them out of it from the get-go. How _could_ she do this to them – their faces almost as pale as hers now; frightened, confused.

It was one thing to attempt to manipulate _him_, but his children – how _dare_ she?

He was holding her almost hard enough to bruise. "We're talking in the library. Now."

00000

It shocked him, she knew, the sudden force with which she wrenched her arm from his grasp. But Hermione Jane Granger Malfoy was a desperate woman now, with all the frantic, adrenaline-fueled strength to prove it.

Desperate – and angry – betrayed – and _scared_.

Something was wrong. Seriously, terrifyingly, fatally wrong. She'd sensed it for a long time, mounting and mounting, and more fool _her_ for not putting her foot down – for not _acting_ – sooner. But she wouldn't be derailed this time. She _couldn't_ – not now that she'd seen the evidence, held it in her hand. That letter from Durmstrang – Luke's school records – the implication was as clear as day; anyone would make the connection. She had made it, and what was more, Draco had as well – she'd seen it click into place in the split second before he'd shut himself off to her, stubbornly refusing to believe.

God, how could he be so _stupid?_ They were in danger – she and Draco – Seth and Ronnelle – they were all in danger – in danger of their _lives! _There might as well have been an alarum bell clanging overhead, it was so obvious to her.

And Draco was talking to her again – no, not talking, exactly; _sneering_ at her, that's what he was doing, sneering at her in a way he hadn't done since they'd been in school together, well before that fateful night in the library, that night that had changed everything, started it all; back when she'd still been nothing more to him than a 'filthy little mudblood'. And what was he saying? She had to make a conscious effort to tune his words in, and even so she only caught the end of the sentence, absolutely dripping with derision –

" – acting like some weak-minded, idiotic, hysterical little _bint!_"

Weak-minded. Hysterical. He wanted to see hysterical? This was it. She had reached the end of her ability to cope.

"_DRACO!_" she shouted, with a vehemence that surprised even her, furious and frustrated and _scared_- scared for herself and for her children and maybe most of all for _him_ – all of her restraint gone. "How can you be so _blind!?_ Luke – your _brother_ – he's evil, Draco, evil down to the core, evil down to his soul! He _comes _from evil, nothing but evil for generations! Nothing good has _ever come out of that family!_ My God, how can you not _SEE_ –"

But she cut off abruptly then, silenced by the look on his face. There was a long, terrible, soundless, _airless_ moment that spiraled out, and out. And then –

"Oh, God," she choked out, as the realization of what she had just said really hit her. "Oh God, Draco… no… oh, no… I didn't… mean –"

But the damage was done. Merlin, the damage was done.

She could see it in the brief unguarded moment – just a fraction of a second, really – before his defenses slammed into place – the enormity of the hurt that flashed through his face, his eyes.

And then the shutters were down; his face and eyes going blank; those rock-solid Malfoy defenses, perfected from a childhood spent in the care of his monster-parents, an adolescence spent in Slytherin – the Hogwarts House that everyone loved to hate.

Those defenses that he hadn't employed against _her_ in nearly two decades.

A battering ram couldn't have gotten through them in this moment. Still, miserably, she tried.

"Draco, _please_ understand –"

"Granger? Shut. Up."

She was silenced less by the words themselves than the tone of voice in which he spoke _(spat)_ them.

That and his eyes – hard and unyielding now as flint, as steel.

"_Nothing good has ever come out of that family_ –" he mimicked her cruelly. "That's how you feel about me, Granger? About our children?"

"Draco, _no!_ You know that's not – God, won't you –"

But he wasn't listening, and he wasn't through. "Nice of you to inform me, after all this time. How very considerate. Well… seeing as that is the case, I certainly wouldn't expect you to _remain_ a Malfoy any longer – distasteful as it obviously is to you. Please, you needn't leave the house on my account – I would not want the children disrupted in such a manner. I'll be gone within the hour, and my _brother_ with me. You'll hear from my solicitors within a day or two about – " his jaw clenched – "about releasing you from the despicable bonds of _Malfoy-dom_. Goodbye… Granger."

He turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

_Draco! Stop! Please, STOP! _She wanted to scream, but the words stuck in her throat. So shocked and devastated was she that the only sound she was able to force out was a tiny, wounded, barely audible "no."

Gripping the counter now so tightly that her knuckles were turning white, she fought to stay upright, with only limited success. Her legs gave and she sagged against the counter, only just managing to keep herself from sliding to the floor.

This couldn't… be happening… he wouldn't do this, not her Draco, her husband, he wouldn't, _wouldn't_, no no no…

… "oh, no."

00000

(A/N: Gosh. Well. Sorry for the delay. Again. Seems like I'm saying that every time, lately. But the good news is that my Master's Degree is behind me now and I have some of that beautiful, elusive thing known as _free time_ again this summer – I'd almost forgotten what that felt like! And so, updates should be forthcoming in a more timely manner over the next couple of months. This chapter, in particular, carries special thanks to all those who emailed or PM'd me over the past few months with words of support, encouragement, and _update please!!!_ Also, even though I'm usually obsessive-compulsive about updating only on Friday nights, I'm posting this chapter on a Tuesday especially for SeanEmma4Evr, who expressed hope that she'd be able to read it before her big final on Thursday… :o)… Good luck girl! Oh and even though I rarely beg for or demand reviews, this chap is 3 days early for _you_ – so _you_ owe me one! Savvy? ;o)


	11. Revelation

"_Mum!_"

Ronnelle's voice might as well have come from a hundred miles away. It sounded to Hermione as if it were echoing, faintly, across a vast, empty, lonely space - a wasteland.

And yet – here was her fair-haired daughter right beside her, pale and stricken-looking, taking her by the arm in an attempt to steady her.

"Matt, help me!" Ronnelle ordered. And then, to Hermione, "Mum. Mum? Come on, come and sit down."

And Seth was there too, then – the exact opposite of his older sister; he always had been, physically, at least – flushed and furious, his dark, serious eyes ablaze with anger. "He doesn't mean it, mum, he wouldn't do that _– I won't let him!_"

Her children, supporting and defending her again; roles hopelessly reversed – this wasn't how it was supposed to be. It was all wrong, everything was _wrong_…

_Hermione, for God's sake get a grip on yourself. The danger is still real, and immediate. And there's no one left to protect them now but you. So pull yourself together right this bloody minute._

Right. All right. Deep breaths. This was a disaster. But if there were any silver lining to be found, anywhere in this mess, it was that one way or another, Luke was leaving the house today. There was that much to be thankful for, at least. That was what she had wanted, after all, and she had achieved it. But the cost, sweet Merlin, the _cost_ –

No. Stop it. That way madness lay. And besides, there was still much to do. The Luke situation was not resolved, far from it. All she'd done was buy herself some time. Luke was still a danger to her family, she knew, she _knew_ – and she was still taking the children and getting the hell out of here, for the time being, at any rate. She needed to regroup, think this through. And she needed the support of her friends. She couldn't handle this on her own, not anymore – as if she'd been doing a good job of it up to now.

God.

She hadn't wanted to drag him into this, she'd resisted as long as she could. But she was in over her head. She needed her best friend.

She needed Harry.

00000

It was some twenty minutes later that Hermione bundled her children into the fireplace to floo to the Potters' house. Matt had gone ahead at Hermione's insistence, to prepare Ginny for the displaced family's imminent arrival, though he'd been deeply shaken by the events in the Malfoy household that morning and had resisted leaving Ronnelle, even for so short a time, right up to the end. It was only both Hermione's and Ronnelle's repeated assurances that she would be the very first to rejoin him that had convinced him ultimately, reluctantly, to go.

Accordingly, Ronnelle stepped into the flames first, vanishing in a flash of green, with Seth close behind her, clutching his rucksack and tossing his mother an uncertain glance over his shoulder as he disappeared. Hermione tried to look strong and reassuring for his sake, but failed at the last moment as something snagged her attention from the very corner of her peripheral vision, wrenching her gaze away from her son.

Draco stood in the doorway of the room, still in the sleep-rumpled clothes he'd been wearing during their nightmare blowout in the kitchen. Had it been half an hour ago or a miserable, interminable lifetime ago? Hermione could barely tell.

His silver-white hair was in even worse disarray than his clothing, looking as though it had been raked through repeatedly; a sure sign of intense agitation in her husband.

Oh, God, her husband... but for how much longer? Merlin, he wouldn't... really... would he?

_Would_ he?

Could she really have destroyed things with Draco so completely through just a few ill-thought-out words? Was there no going back from here?

His posture was loose; almost casual - but she could tell at a glance that his posture was a lie. She'd been his wife for nearly two decades, after all. His fists, at his sides, were clenched so hard that she imagined his nails digging little white crescents into his palms. And his eyes... they were that intense gunmetal color, shades darker than normal, that could only indicate one of two things; lust... or desperation.

Their eye contact sizzled - it burned. There was so much that still needed desperately to be said. God, what was she doing? She couldn't just floo away from her husband, her life mate, her _soul_ mate. This was ludicrous, it was... inconceivable.

Her lips parted almost of their own accord, and she drew in a breath to say… what, she hardly knew. But then she stopped cold. _Literally_ cold, as though she'd just been doused, head to foot, with icy water.

She'd just seen Luke.

He sauntered down the hallway to linger just behind his brother, Draco unaware of his presence as all of his attention continued to be focused on Hermione. And in Luke's cold, menacing eyes and calculatedly bland expression, just the hint of a smirk twisting his lips, she saw the reason she had to go.

_I know what you are, you soulless bastard. And you will not hurt my children._

Draco wasn't her highest priority anymore. It was that simple. And it killed her – _killed_ her – that he'd been taken in by Luke and that she was leaving him in what she strongly suspected to be real and immediate danger. But her primary responsibility lay in the safety of her children – Ronnelle and Seth and the baby, as yet unsuspected by anyone but Ginny, which she carried within her.

She would resume her attempts to get through to Draco – she would, she _had_ to, but not until she knew that her children were out of peril. That came first. So she released the breath she'd been holding with a sick, miserable little exhalation, swallowed hard, turned away, and followed her offspring into the still-green flames.

00000

The room was a vacuum.

He could hardly breathe.

His family was gone and he felt their absence in every fiber of his body. The silence they left in their wake was almost a solid thing. It pressed in on him so heavily that he sagged back against the doorframe, barely able to keep himself upright. And if this was what it was like one moment after they'd left, what would it be like for him tomorrow? And the next day? And the next?

Merlin, it hardly bore thinking about.

How could she have done this to him? For no other reason than that she hadn't liked sharing her home with his brother? What was one more family member in a house this size, really? A house, moreover, that could be magically enlarged even further at any time? It wasn't as though they were short on space. How could she be so selfish? How?

He took a deep, shaky breath. He needed to get a grip on himself. And he needed to see Severus. His whole life might have fallen into shambles in the space of half an hour, but that much at least hadn't changed. He needed his mentor now more than ever.

Right. Have a shower. Get some decent clothes on. And then track Snape down. If he could think of each step independently, take one thing at a time, and never look too far ahead, then perhaps he could prevent himself from becoming completely overwhelmed.

He turned to head for his bedroom – and a hand came down on his shoulder.

He started, and then realized.

Christ. Luke. The person at the center of it all. Absurdly enough, in the drama of his family's departure, Draco had actually, completely forgotten his brother's very immediate presence in the house.

"Draco?" Luke's gray eyes were searching, intent. "What's going on? Is something wrong?"

Shit. What could he say? _My fucking traitor of a wife just left me over you, and took my children with her. The three of them have been my world since I left school half a lifetime ago and now I don't… I can't… I'm fucking… lost._

But of course he couldn't very well say _that_, now could he?

Fuck no.

"Luke, I'll… listen, we need to get out of here. Just for a short while, until I can… until things… look, I'll explain on the way. Just, um… grab your broomstick and meet me outside in twenty minutes, all right? I'm taking you to meet an old friend. I think you'll like him. Okay?"

Luke's expression now was guarded; skeptical. "There's something you're not – "

"You're damn right there's something I'm not!" Draco cut in, his fragile control slipping. But he reined himself in, nearly panting from the effort of not flying completely off the handle. It wasn't Luke he was angry with after all, he reminded himself.

It wasn't Luke who had betrayed him.

"Luke, please don't press me," he gritted out through clenched teeth. "I said I'll tell you on the way and I will. But I need… to fucking… get myself together first. All _right?_"

"Alright," Luke said at last, somewhat reluctantly. "Twenty, outside. See you then."

As Draco pushed past him, wearing the sick expression of a man who'd just been kicked repeatedly in the gut, Luke's eyes drifted aimlessly across the now-empty kitchen – and then narrowed, arrested by the sight of a piece of parchment lying forgotten on the floor. It was heavy, pale gray, and bore a crest he knew quite well.

_Durmstrang_.

In two quick strides he crossed the floor and snatched it up.

_Dear Mrs. Malfoy_, he read.

00000

Hermione stumbled emerging from the Potters' kitchen fireplace – it had been so long since she'd last been pregnant, with Seth nearly thirteen years ago, that she'd forgotten how flooing tended to affect her while expecting. Right around the time she'd first begun to show with Ronnelle, she had found that the intense spinning sensation associated with floo travel caused her to arrive at her destination unsteady on her feet, disoriented, even mildly ill.

Needless to say, she hadn't used this particular mode of transport again during either of her previous pregnancies.

And now she remembered why.

She very likely would have fallen, in fact, had not a pair of strong arms reached out instantly to steady her, and she found herself a heartbeat later looking up into Harry's worried, dark green eyes.

He didn't say a word – he didn't need to. The anxiety in his expression – and in Ginny's, right beside him – was all it took to get her to spill her guts – literally.

"I'm-pregnant-and-Draco-wants-a-divorce," she gasped out, then shoved an aghast Harry aside, rushed to the bathroom, and threw up.

00000

Luke was thinking fast, the Durmstrang parchment crumpled in his fist.

He'd never believed the mudblood to be unintelligent… but neither had he expected her to be shrewd enough to go delving into his past this way.

This was a real wrench in his plans; it wasn't supposed to have happened like this. Upon receiving this letter from Durmstrang, the mudblood had not only connected the dots, so to speak, but she'd actually pulled herself together enough to make a run for it, and take her half-breed brats with her. It hardly seemed possible, as frankly deranged as she'd been acting lately. He'd thought he had broken her sanity, and done a good job of it, too. Yes she'd suspected him, for quite a while now, he knew. He knew, and he had enjoyed toying with her, watching her unravel. But she was supposed to have destabilized to the point where she should have lost the ability to rationally think through the danger to her family and take decisive action to prevent it.

He'd assumed she'd be more deferential to her husband, as well.

Apparently he'd underestimated her.

Well, no matter. He could still salvage this. He just needed to remove Draco temporarily from the equation, and then find out where the rest of the family had gone. He couldn't simply eliminate Draco, not just yet. Draco had to die last, with the full knowledge that the three people who meant more to him than anything else in the world had been tortured and murdered because they _were_ the three people who meant more to him than anything else in the world.

Draco had to die screaming.

That was _The Plan_. The plan that Luke had been raised to consider a nearly sacred calling, practically since he'd been a babe at his mother's breast. And that final moment, when the uppity little mudblood had been put in her place, when she was lying at his feet and her filthy spawn along with her, when he'd removed their stain permanently from his family's name and honor – that moment before he delivered the final death blow to his blood traitor of a brother and took his rightful place as sole heir to the Malfoy line –

That moment would be so sweet.

And any extra effort required in getting there would only make it all the sweeter in the end.

00000

Hermione sat hunched at the Potters' kitchen table, her elbows resting on the scrubbed wood surface, holding a mug of steaming tea with both hands. Ginny, who had brewed the tea purposely weak in an effort to help settle her friend's stomach, was sitting close beside her. The two women's shoulders and arms were touching, as if Ginny were now attempting to transfer some modicum of comfort to Hermione through their simple skin-to-skin contact.

The children, all of them save baby Lily, had been banished outdoors, where Chris and Seth were half-heartedly practicing their Seeker skills, whilst Matt and Ronnelle were around the side of the house, snogging unabashedly in the arbor, for all the world like a couple who'd been separated for months.

Harry, for his part, was pacing the room like a caged animal.

"No," he burst out abruptly, for what had to be the fifth time. "It can't be like that, Hermione, it can't. You _must_ have misunderstood."

"Harry!" Her voice was a hoarse mixture of misery and exasperation. "I wish to God I was mistaken, but I'm _not!_ I know my husband, all right? It was as clear as day."

"But that's not possible! Sweet Merlin, Hermione, the man is stupid in love with you. I know that – _everyone_ knows that! He wouldn't _do_ that. He swore it." His voice dropped to a barely audible pitch. "He swore it to Ron and me."

Hermione looked, if anything, more stricken than ever. "Ron?" she repeated, in a small, almost sick voice. "You and _Ron?_ When?"

"When we… just before we went…" Harry trailed off, seeming to think better of proceeding with his explanation, as Ginny glared daggers at him. Hermione was in a fragile enough state without having old, old wounds reopened for her. She didn't need to know, just now, about the conversation the three boys had had just before embarking for Malfoy Manor to retrieve her from Lucius' cruel custody – a mission that had cost Ron his life.

"It was a long time ago," he finished lamely, "but damnit, Hermione, I hold him to it, and more than that, I know he holds _himself_ to it as well – it was not a promise made lightly." He stopped pacing abruptly, only to run both hands through his hair, such a Draco-like gesture that it earned a double-take from Hermione at the table.

"This is wrong," he said flatly. "It's just wrong, and I'm going to find out what in the hell's going on." And without another word he spun, strode to the fireplace, tossed some floo powder into the flames, and vanished.

His whole demeanor was different when he reappeared some fifteen minutes later. Gone was his former frenetic agitation, replaced by an aura of grim calm. His green eyes were hard, reflecting a deep, simmering anger.

"He's gone," he said flatly, as Ginny wrapped her arm tightly around Hermione, pulling her even closer, squeezing her shoulders in a futile attempt at comfort. "There's no one there; the house is completely empty. The son of a bitch is really gone."

00000

"Ugh!" Draco whirled and smacked his palm against the wall in frustration. "_Damn_ it, I need to speak to Severus! What the hell could be holding him up? He _knows_ I wouldn't ask unless it were important!" Turning abruptly, he sagged back against the wall, pushing his silvery hair, windswept from the hectic broomstick flight to Snape's house, out of his eyes.

Luke, for his part, turned from where he'd been examining some interesting artifact on Snape's mantel. Draco had brought them to this house following a hurried floo exchange with his mentor, whom he'd caught in the midst of some crucial endeavor in the Hogwarts potions lab. Apparently the urgency of Draco's request to meet had been somewhat lost on the professor, who'd been rather distracted throughout their brief conversation by the many extremely volatile potions ingredients simmering to a boil nearby. He had directed Draco to meet him at the little cottage, some dozen miles outside of Hogsmeade, that he'd purchased about ten years ago with dreams of a retirement that had not, as yet, come to pass.

Still, it was a pleasant and, even more importantly as far as Snape was concerned, a _secluded_ little place that had proved perfect for quiet holidays and, on occasion, private meetings such as this.

But where was he, damn it? Where? _Where?_

Draco couldn't even floo him from here; true to his character, Snape had never connected his country home to the network, preferring not to be disturbed while at his retreat. Apparition wards surrounded the property as well; the only way to get a message through to Snape while he was on holiday was by owl post… which was exactly how Snape liked it. Draco was mentally weighing the pros and cons of apparating to the edge of Hogwarts grounds and actively going in search of the older man, versus staying put and trusting that Snape was already on his way, when Luke spoke, jerking him out of his troubled reverie.

" – parents?"

Draco shook his head slightly, brow furrowing. _What _was that Luke had just said? Something completely off-topic; nothing to do with Snape, or Hermione, or anything else relevant at all.

"Wait." He shoved his hair back from his forehead again; a curt, distracted gesture, buying himself valuable seconds as he made a concerted effort at focusing his scattered attention on his brother. "Wait… _what?_"

Standing by the cold fireplace, Luke looked distinctly uncomfortable, yet determined. "Draco. I've been meaning to bring this up for a long time, but it just – it never seemed right. But since we have some time to kill and it looks like you could use a distraction, I was hoping… that you could tell me something about our parents."

"Our _parents?_" Draco echoed, struggling to wrap his mind, which had been dazed and sluggish ever since watching his family disappear in a flash of green flame, around the unexpected turn the conversation had just taken. "_Why?_"

Luke's expression took on a defiant cast. "Look, I wanted to ask you before. It's only natural, you know. If _you_ had never known them, wouldn't you be curious?"

"If I'd never known them…" Draco sighed, hearing again Hermione's accusing voice ripping through his mind _– nothing good has ever come out of that family!_ "I guess you're right. I'm sorry. Frankly, it never even occurred to me that you'd want to talk about them. It's because I _did_ know them that I prefer to… well, not to dwell on them when I can help it. But yeah – you've got a right to know if you're curious. What do you want me to tell you?"

"I don't know." Luke suddenly appeared very young; strikingly vulnerable. "Just… what were they like?"

"Like." Draco's voice was flat. A teenaged kid – and that's what Luke was, really, for all that Hermione was determined to paint him as some kind of demon – an _orphaned_ kid, no less, wanting to hear, from someone who had known firsthand, what his parents had been _like_. It was the most natural thing in the world.

And now it fell to him, Draco, to reveal to the boy that his parents had been nothing short of… monsters.

It was a shit situation all around. Still, Draco had never been one for sugar-coating the facts, and he wasn't about to start now.

He owed Luke more than that.

He crossed to the battered brown leather sofa that held pride of place in the center of Snape's living room and collapsed onto it, bracing his booted feet on the edge of the coffee table and dropping his elbows onto his knees, arms dangling loosely between his legs. "I hardly know where to begin."

"What about our mother?" Luke asked. "I know her name, but that's about it. What kind of a person was she?"

"Our mother," Draco echoed. It had been a long, long time since he'd thought about Narcissa Malfoy, much less in terms of their one-time relationship as mother and son. _Evil to the core, evil to the soul!_ Hermione was screaming behind his temples. _Nothing good has ever come out of that family!_ How could he sum Narcissa up for Luke, who was waiting expectantly to learn about the mother he'd never known? The truth was stark; ugly. How did he break it gently to his brother that their mother had been a monster?

"She was…" Draco trailed off for a moment, struggling to find the right words. "She was beautiful. One of the most stunning women I've ever seen. But Luke, she was… Merlin, so _cold_. Under that beautiful exterior, there was… nothing, really. Frost. Cruelty. And that's all. I'm sorry – this can't be easy for you to hear."

Draco was still sitting folded over on the couch, his eyes fixed on the dark, rough-hewn wood of Snape's floor, unable to bring himself to look in Luke's direction as he disclosed these bitter, unwelcome truths. Consequently, he misread the utter white-hot fury in his brother's voice, taking it for a simple surplus of emotion as Luke gritted out, voice shaking, "and our father?"

"Lucius." Draco's voice was flat with hatred. "I honestly don't think there's one thing I could tell you about him, Luke, that you would really want to hear."

"Oh, you're wrong." Luke's voice was soft now; deceptively so. "There's _one_ thing you can tell me about him that I very much want to know. That I've wanted to know for years, actually. You can tell me the story of how you murdered him, your _own father_, in cold blood."

Draco's breath caught – a sick, sinking feeling sweeping over him. Luke shouldn't know about that. There was no – bloody – way in _hell_ that Luke should know about that.

_What the FUCK was going on here?_

He raised his head, very slowly, slate-colored eyes seeking his brother from beneath the fringe of white-blond hair that fell forward over his brow.

Luke was still lounging against the mantel, his wand now trained steadily, unerringly on Draco's heart; a cold, ugly, hate-filled sneer twisting his mouth. "We have a _lot_ to talk about, in fact," he continued evenly as Draco stared at him, stunned beyond words, "before mother arrives."


	12. Interlude: Blanche

(A/N: Not a full chaper, length-wise, which is why I'm calling it an interlude. Brief as it is, it serves as the story's essential transition point between 'things are getting bad' and 'things ARE bad.' Enjoy...)

OOOOO

" – Nelle. Ronn_elle_. Wake _up_."

And there it was again; that insistent shaking of her shoulder, tugging her relentlessly from a warm and pleasant dream.

"Ronnelle!" The voice in her ear was a whisper, but an urgent one.

"Ugh. What?" Blearily, and rather resentfully, she pushed herself up onto her elbows, prying open one eye, then the other. The fire in the grate had long since died down to embers, but there was enough dim light in the room for her to make out the source of the disturbance.

"Seth… wha time'sit? whaddya_want?_"

Her brother was sitting beside her, perched on the edge of the sofa. It was a soft, deep, comfortable couch situated in the Potters' den, and had been given Ronnelle to sleep on for the night. Seth had bedded down nearby, in a cozy nest of blankets on the floor, about midway between the sofa and the hearth. Hermione, for her part, was down the hall, tossing fitfully in the guest room.

Sleepily, Ronnelle pulled her legs up to her chest, linked her arms around them, and dropped her chin onto her knees, yawning hugely as she did so. She was not one who enjoyed disruptions to her sleep.

"Well?" she prodded in drowsy irritation. "_What?_"

Seth's dark eyes were wide and worried in the gloom. Ronnelle wondered whether he'd ever gone properly to sleep at all; whether he had or not, he was fully awake now.

"Ronnelle, I have to go home," he whispered.

"_What?_ Why?"

"I've got to get Blanche."

"Oh Seth, for Merlin's sake, you woke me up for – "

"I _have_ to, Nell! I didn't understand! Mum said we were only coming here for a little while, but now she's talking like we'll be here for _weeks_. And she's acting completely nutters about going home, even for a minute; I know if I ask her she'll say no, so I have to go now. I only left enough food for a day or two. I _have to get Blanche!_"

Ronnelle sighed, scrubbing a hand across her eyes, then raking her fingers through her sleep-tangled hair. "Seth, dad is still at home, remember? He'll feed your bloody ferret."

"No he won't!" Seth sounded close to tears. "You _know_ he won't. Dad hates her, Nell. He'll let her starve!"

"You can't believe that, Seth; he would never!"

It was true that Draco had never had any love for Seth's snow-white albino ferret Blanche, which had been a birthday present to him from the Potters some three years ago. Indeed, neither of the children had ever been able to figure out why, upon first setting eyes on the gift, he had turned a rather striking shade of purple and promptly slammed out of the room, muttering furiously under his breath as he went, whilst Harry and Hermione had both laughed so hard that they'd needed to support each other in order to keep from falling down.

Even so, Ronnelle didn't think for a minute that he would allow a helpless animal to _starve_. Her brother was completely overreacting, as per usual.

"_Wouldn't_ he?" Seth demanded stubbornly. "After this morning, after… after what he said to mum, I don't know _what_ I believe about dad."

Playing the devil's advocate, Ronnelle pointed out, "Mum said some things too."

"She didn't make him _cry,_ Ronnelle! She didn't make him throw up!"

"How do _you_ know?" Ronnelle challenged. "I for one thought he looked pretty upset. We don't know _what_ he did after we left. But I do know one thing – he's still at home and he won't let Blanche starve to death. Look, if it will make you feel better, why don't you owl him in the morning and remind him about her, just in case he's forgotten? Then you won't have to worry, all right? Now for Merlin's sake stop bugging me and go to _sleep_."

Seth glared daggers at her in the half light. "Fine," he spat, "I should have known better than to think you'd help me. You don't care about Blanche, or me, or anything except snogging your stupid boyfriend. If you won't help, I'll do it myself."

He stood up and crossed determinedly to the fireplace.

"_Seth!_" Ronnelle sat up straighter, swinging her bare feet onto the floor. "Don't you dare, you little prat! I'll call mum!"

He turned back to face her, the jar of floo powder in his hand. "You wouldn't," he said with calm assurance. "She'd go completely mental, and you don't want to see that any more than I do. What mum doesn't know won't hurt her; it will only take me ten minutes to get Blanche and come back again. I can keep her in Chris's room and mum never has to know I went. Unless _you_ open your big mouth and freak her all out."

They glowered at each other for a long, silent moment, Seth's chin thrust out defiantly, Ronnelle's pale eyes practically shooting off sparks of annoyance and indignation. She hated when he got the better of her in an argument; _she_ was the elder, _she_ was the Ravenclaw; how in Merlin's name did he _do_ it??

But he was right, of course. This was a scenario that would be _extremely_ upsetting to Hermione, who was obviously in a fragile state to begin with. She couldn't expose her mother to this right now. And Seth's proposed errand _would_ only take a few minutes; floo in, grab the cage, floo out again. Come to think of it, there were a couple of books and other small items she wouldn't mind retrieving from her _own_ room while they were at it…

"Oh, goddamn it, all _right_," she said at last. "You _know_ I won't worry mum with this, and you know I won't let you go alone. So let's just get this done with."

Seth, always quick to forgive a spat provided he got his own way in the end, grinned happily. "Thanks, sis."

Ronnelle stood up, twisted her sleep-wild platinum hair into a hasty knot at the nape of her neck, and grabbed her satin bathrobe off a nearby chair, pulling it quickly on over her jersey-knit pajamas as she crossed the room. "Spare me the 'sis' tripe," she snapped, still heartily irritated as she took the jar of floo powder from Seth's hands and unscrewed the lid. "Just get your damn, smelly ferret and be quick about it." She scooped out a handful of the powder and tossed it into the flames, which sizzled and spat and promptly turned green. "In ten minutes we are back in this room – I'm holding you to that. I am _not_ getting into trouble over this, Seth, do you hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah," he said as she placed the jar back on the mantle. "I've got it, ten minutes _tops_."

A second later, they'd both vanished into the flames.


	13. Convergence

Coming back to consciousness was _not_ pleasant for Draco.

He groaned as he opened his eyes, blinking hard to force them into focus. Not that his efforts did him much good; his surroundings were nearly pitch black.

Nearly pitch black… _Christ_, how long had he been out?

Then it all came back in a rush.

"Oh, no," he whispered hoarsely. "Oh, fuck… fuck, no…" His still-sluggish brain seemed unable to adequately convey the horror of his situation except through the repetition of those three simple words. _Oh – fuck – no_.

Luke… his brother… had betrayed him. They had fought… Merlin, how they'd fought. Hermione had been right… Hermione…

_Hermione_.

Oh, fuck. Hermione. Seth. Ronnelle…

_My children. My WIFE_…

He tried to lever himself into a sitting position; this was more difficult than he had anticipated.

"Hermione," he whispered, hoarsely, out loud. The name seemed to give him strength. "Hermione. _Hermione_."

Pushing back waves of vertigo, he forced himself to sit. To kneel.

To stand.

"Hermione."

He listed sideways; fetched up against a piece of furniture. Too dark to tell exactly what it was, but it had weight; substance. It supported him.

"Hermione."

Glass crunched beneath his boots as he forced one foot in front of the other.

"Hermione."

Something was running down his temple; something that was black in the dimness; thick, viscous. The hair that fell forward in his face was coated with it; tacky and wet. He raised a hand to shove it back out of his eyes, resulting in a broad, crimson-black streak across his palm. This in turn he wiped automatically on his shirt, leaving a garish stripe across his chest.

The last thing on his mind, however, was his appearance.

Luke would have gone back to the house, looking for his family. _His family_. And that wasn't all. He'd implied, Draco now recalled, a fresh wave of horror sweeping over him, that Narcissa was alive and well, and had been informed of where Draco lived, and was on _her_ way there as well.

His family. Their lives were at stake. And it was all his fault, his bloody stupid fault.

Oh, God… let them be safe at the Potters'… let Hermione have had the sense to stay there... please, God… let them… let… them…

It didn't matter, though. He had to get back home; had to make sure. Home first… then on to Harry's. Home first… just to check. He stumbled – went down on one knee. Gave a hoarse shout of pain as something – (a shard of glass?) – drove itself through his skin.

"Christ… fuck…" collapsed on his side, curled instinctively into a tight fetal ball.

_Hermione_.

Gritted his teeth. Forced himself up again; to his knees, then to his feet. He had to make it out past Snape's anti-apparition ward, which to the best of his recollection extended at least a quarter-mile from the house in any given direction.

_Shit_.

One in front of the other. Come on, Draco, fucking come _on_. He stumbled. Recovered. Merlin, it was dark. Raised his right hand.

"_Lumos_."

Light burst forth from his fingertips, but it was far weaker than he'd expected; dim and flickering, like candleglow. God… _damnit_… what was wrong with his magic? How in the hell had that traitorous bastard Luke bested him?? Why were his powers abandoning him now – _now!_ – after all these years, now when he needed them so desperately, now when his family's lives hung in the balance?

Christ, everything was wrong, all wrong. This was the worst he'd ever fucked up in his life. Well, magic be damned. So help him _God_, if Luke touched one hair on his wife or children's heads, Draco was going to tear him apart with his bare, bloody hands. Fury alone would lend him the strength.

One foot… in front of… the other. Her name was beating in his head, in his heart, like a drum. Hermione. Hermione. Hermione. _Please, let me be in time_. _I HAVE to be in time_. He was coming. God help him… and God… _HELP_… Luke. He was coming… home.

_HERMIONE_.

OOOOO

Ronnelle heard the voices the instant she stepped out of the fireplace and into her own living room, and they stopped her in her tracks, an unaccountable wave of dread washing over her. True, she'd been hoping against hope that the house would be empty, her father and Luke having gone off to... to bond in the woods, or whatever it was that men _did_ to cope with highly emotional situations; or that, if the house _were_ occupied, those occupants would be soundly asleep, so that she and Seth could get in and out quickly and smoothly. Discovery, by _anyone_, meant a chance that news of this little escapade would get back to Hermione, and that was _not_ something that Ronnelle wanted. Ever a Ravenclaw at heart, she was not, by nature, a rule-breaker; and the idea of causing any further distress to her mother, who was clearly _already_ in a fragile emotional place, was particularly heinous to her. She didn't want to be here in the first place; she'd only come to look after Seth, and ensure the successful completion of his asinine ferret-rescue mission, with a minimum of trauma all around.

Well, perhaps she could still salvage the situation. Retrieving Blanche would have to wait – but maybe she and Seth could floo back without anyone becoming any the wiser, if they were quick and quiet about it. Seth was a couple of paces ahead of her; she simultaneously grabbed him by the arm and pressed a finger to his lips, urging silence.

Meeting his eyes, she inclined her head back toward the fireplace and applied some pressure to his arm, making it perfectly clear that she intended for the two of them to depart again, post haste. She was dismayed, but not entirely surprised, when Seth dug in his heels, glaring mutinously at her, and whispered,

"You're such a pansy, Nell; it's only Uncle Luke, who cares?"

_Uncle Luke_. Ronnelle had never gotten used to addressing him thus, seeing as he was only two years her senior. In fact, truth be told, she'd never really gotten used to Luke – never really _warmed_ to him – at all. And some deep instinct was telling her that she _should_ care about him – about his current presence in the next room – a very great deal. That she should be getting Seth and herself the hell out of there, _now_.

It was irrational, she knew – but it was also inarguable.

"_Seth!_" she hissed furiously, "this was supposed to go off without anyone finding out! Not mum, not dad, and _not Uncle Luke!_ That was the deal, that's what you agreed to! And damnit, we are leaving _right_ – "

She broke off suddenly as a new voice made itself heard from the next room. Until this moment, she and Seth had heard only Luke's familiar drawl, and Ronnelle had naturally assumed that he must have been talking to Draco. Who else would it be?

But this new voice did not belong to her father. It was female.

And it was angry.

It was also somehow familiar, though Ronnelle was sure she'd never heard it before. Hearing it now, a chill shot through her. She was instinctively horrified by it, and a glance at Seth's now-wide eyes confirmed that his reaction was much the same. And that was even before they heard exactly _what_ it was that the voice was saying.

" – escape to the Potters'? As in, _Harry Potter?_" The voice was rising, clearly angry. "Have you any idea, Luke, any idea _at all_, the kind of protections that must be on that house!? On the home of the _Boy Who Lived_, for Merlin's sake?? You might as well have let them escape to the _moon_ for all that we'll be able to reach them there; they're completely untouchable! So what if you've managed to weaken Draco for the final confrontation, as you claim? We've just lost all our leverage, Luke, all of our ability to make him _really suffer_; you do understand that, don't you? I'm disappointed, Luke, very disappointed. After everything I've taught you, after all this time…"

Luke's voice interjected something then, but Ronnelle couldn't make out what her uncle was saying; she was too stunned. Momentarily frozen in place, she now shook her head, attempting to collect herself. Then, still holding onto Seth's arm, she recommenced backing toward the fireplace. She was intensely relieved when this time, Seth came with her unresistingly.

Of course, after what they'd just overheard, he'd have had to be pretty goddamn stupid to have resisted. And Seth may have been a lot of things, but he wasn't stupid.

So how, _how_ did he keep getting into situations like these?

Well, that was a topic for future reflection. What mattered now was leaving leaving leaving _leaving LEAVING_.

Getting back to Uncle Harry's house – which apparently was a spectacularly safe place to be, though she'd never actually thought about it in those terms before. And reporting what she'd just heard to… well, _someone_.

Everyone.

She would never doubt her mother's intuition again.

One foot back, and then the other, and she was standing beside the mantel once more. She reached behind herself and groped for the jar of floo powder. Found it.

Her fingers closed around it.

And then everything went wrong.

There just wasn't time to fumble the lid off the jar. There wouldn't have been time even if her fingers had been nimble, but at the moment they were leaden and clumsy from stunned fear. She was struggling frantically with it when she realized that the voices were quite rapidly increasing in volume; the speakers were approaching.

And then, before she'd had time to do more than gasp out her despair, they were there in the doorway that led from the kitchen; Luke and a woman who was in the midst of saying, " – just have to floo a couple of my connections and see if there isn't some way we can possibly salvage this complete _disaster_ you've – "

The woman broke off abruptly at the sight of the two pajama-clad youngsters at the far end of the room. Several things happened at once.

Ronnelle jerked Seth to her and then thrust him behind her in a single brusque, protective movement.

Luke whipped out his wand, leveled it at the jar of floo powder still clutched in Ronnelle's hand, and shouted, "_Accio!_" effectively crushing any last lingering hope of escape.

Ronnelle barely even registered the loss of the jar, for she was staring in open-mouthed shock at the stranger; a woman who, despite the fact that she was clearly decades older than Ronnelle herself, could almost have passed for her twin.

A tall, slim, willowy figure which appeared nearly as youthful and graceful as Ronnelle's own.

Same soft, pale hair rolling in loose waves down her back.

Same expressive face, with the pointed chin and delicate features.

Same grey-blue eyes; though while Ronnelle's eyes at the moment communicated astonishment, fear, and a hint of defiance, the eyes that gazed back at her were narrowed; shrewd, calculating, and colder than ice.

"Well, well, well," Narcissa sing-songed softly, "what _have_ we here?"

Luke, at her elbow, barked, "_Stupefy_."

OOOOO

"_NO! Oh Draco, NOOOO -- !!_"

Hermione bolted upright in bed, shaking, drenched in cold sweat, heart thudding in her ears. Her first reaction was complete, uncomprehending panic; this wasn't her bed, her room – where _was_ she?

Then she remembered, and the wave of panic receded, to be replaced by a calmer, quieter sort of despair.

Harry's. She was at Harry's. And Draco was nowhere nearby.

Her heart was slowing, but her breathing remained quick and ragged. She swallowed hard, forcing her panting breaths into check; certain, now that she had remembered where she was, that her cry must have woken the entire household. So far as she knew, there was no silence charm on Harry's guest room, the way there was on her room at home. But a moment passed, and then another, and another – and no one came to her, or even called out.

The scream must have been only in her mind, then. Merely a part of her dream, which already was fading quickly from her consciousness, leaving only a sensation of vague, lingering horror in its wake.

She hadn't shouted out loud. Well, at least she could be grateful for _that_ much. She supposed.

She slumped back against the pillows, feeling more exhausted and wrung-out now than she had when she'd _gone_ to bed. As her breathing slowed, she became conscious of the fact that she had both hands pressed protectively over her stomach, as though shielding the tiny, precious life within.

_Her child_. It was early yet, of course, but she had a feeling she was carrying a girl. And her intuition had proved sound with both Ronnelle and Seth, so she was no longer second-guessing herself at this point.

A girl. It was incredible. A playmate for baby Lily. Just as Ronnelle and Matt had grown up practically joined at the hip, and then Seth and Chris, there was to be a new set of Potter – Malfoy best friends to grow and learn and play and explore, inseparable.

It actually made her crack a smile, for a moment – until reality came crashing back in and she remembered how different were the circumstances of this pregnancy from those of her previous ones. Draco had been – God, there was hardly a word to describe it; 'elated' would be an understatement – when he'd learned first about Ronnelle, and then about Seth. By the time she'd been as far along as she was now, in both previous cases he'd been a complete nervous wreck… but endearingly so. In bed at night it wouldn't be her own hands clasped possessively over the tiny, barely noticeable bump in her belly as they were now, but his.

She felt tears welling up, hot and close to the surface – they were always close to the surface, lately – and shook her head, rallying against them. It seemed like she'd been crying all day; she wasn't going to cry all night too, if for no other reason than it couldn't possibly be good for the baby.

Restless now, she pushed aside the blankets that had pooled around her waist, swung her feet over the edge of the bed, and stood. If she simply stayed in bed brooding, it would be nearly impossible to stave off the tears with any lasting success. So she would… she would… what? It was three in the morning. What could she do?

She would just nip in and check on Seth and Ronnelle, make sure they were resting comfortably in the den… and then… uh… head to the kitchen for some warm milk, laced perhaps with just a touch of dreamless sleep potion, to see her through the rest of the night.

Yes, that's what she'd do. It was as good a plan as any, at this hour.

OOOOO

Five minutes later, standing in the doorway of the empty den, her heart in her throat, Hermione knew – _knew_ – she'd lost them all.

She could have checked the rest of the house, of course; that would, in fact, have been the sane and logical thing to do. But the depth of her knowledge went beyond logic, beyond sanity.

They weren't in this house.

They were gone.

Her husband. Her children. Her whole family. All of them.

Gone.

She reached for the doorframe to steady herself, but it was no use; her legs buckled, spilling her to her knees.

And then, _then_, she began to scream out loud.


	14. Anguish

(A / N: Ha HA! Shenanigans on _you! _I said this would be up _next _weekend, but here it is a whole week early! - evil grin - And you people complain that I never update. Why, the last chapter went up only a couple of weeks ago in… oh… uh… March, was it? - Blushes - _Crap_. Oh well, for whatever it's worth, here it is. I just finished early, so I figured, why wait? It wasn't _supposed_ to go up until Thursday or Friday night, but once I got involved in it I just could not – stop – writing. Yeah, it's nice and long and meaty, too! For anyone who has been waiting anxiously (and feel free to tell me if I'm just flattering myself) you can actually thank "MargaritaVille" for this update. I had hit a really dry spell creatively, but working on that little ficlet really got the creative juices flowing again! Oh, and this is also for Noelle, in the hopes that all of this copious Malfoy-angst will help get her mind off her _own_ angst for a little while. Hope you're feeling better, girl! Anyway – here's the chap; enjoy! I'm just gonna hit the rum and hope some reviews roll in!!)

OOOOO

OOOOO

Ronnelle came back to consciousness abruptly, bolting into a sitting position with a sound on her lips that was somewhere between a gasp and a scream.

No moment of bewilderment, of disorientation; she knew exactly what had happened; she remembered it all.

"Seth," she breathed. Where was her brother? For that matter, where was _she?_ Were they still in their house, or had they been taken somewhere? Were they separated, or still together? It was too dark to tell right at the moment; she'd have to give her eyes a little time to adjust.

Too dark… too dark to tell… her mind was racing. It had been the wee hours of the morning when she and Seth had undertaken their fatally foolish rescue mission for the benefit of

- _That stupid filthy ferret! If I ever see it again I'll KILL it!!_ -

Seth's beloved pet, so if it was still dark out… and it most assuredly _was_ still dark out… then either very little time had passed, or else a whole lot.

Her stomach did a sick little flip at the thought that she might have lost a whole day, or even more. Did her mother know they were missing yet? Did her father?

And for that matter, where _was_ her father? Why hadn't he been at home? Why had it only been Luke and that horrible, evil old woman? Then something she'd heard the woman say to Luke came crashing back to the front of her mind; something about 'weakening Draco' – weakening him and then making him _really suffer_.

Oh God, where _was_ he? And was he all right?

Suddenly she wanted her father more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life.

She wanted to know that he was all right, and more than all right; she wanted to know that he was aware, somehow, of what was going on, and that he was _righteously_ pissed off about it, and that he was on his way to get her _right now_.

She wanted his arms around her, comforting her the way he used to do when she was a little girl, and had fallen off her toy hover-broom and skinned her knees. She wanted him to call her 'Princess' and to tell her that it was okay; it was under control, and at fifteen years of age she wasn't _expected_ to have all the answers, even if she _was_ a Ravenclaw; that she had done her very best trying to keep her brother safe, and that _that_ was what mattered.

Even if she _had_ failed miserably.

Tears, hot and prickly, leapt to her eyes, but she fought them back savagely. Tears were a luxury, an indulgence that she could not afford right now. She had to be strong now, for Seth. She had to figure out a way to get them out of here. Wherever _here_ was.

She _had_ to.

"Seth?" she whispered into the darkness. "_Seth?_"

She thought she just might – _might_ – have a way to get him out of this mess… maybe even the both of them, but at the very least, Seth.

It hadn't occurred to her earlier, when she'd been fumbling frantically with the floo jar, because her mind had been so firmly stuck in panic-mode. Now, though – now she actually thought there might be a chance… _if _it really even worked, that was – it weren't as though she'd ever tested it before –

And if she could get to Seth.

"_Seth?!_" she hissed again, in mounting desperation. "Seth, _answer_ me!" her voice wavered; cracked. "_Please!_"

Reaching out and feeling blindly with her hands, she found the wall and, using it for leverage, got to her feet. Her head was pounding, and standing up caused a wave of vertigo to sweep over her; after-effects of the spell she'd been hit with, she supposed. It certainly wasn't as though she'd ever been _Stupefied_ before, so she had no way of judging based on experience. She had read about it, of course… but reading about a spell, _any_ spell, much less a malicious one like that, could in no way prepare a person for experiencing it first-hand.

And this was turning out to be one _hell_ of an experience; one that she could only pray was nearly at an end.

_Please, please, please, let me find Seth. Let the charm work. Let it work on both of us. Let us get out of here. I want my parents. I want Matt. I want… I want to feel __**safe **__again._

A sob crept up on her then, catching her unawares and wrenching itself out of her before she could do a thing to stop it. And once that first one blazed the trail, more followed, and more, until they were piling out of her so fast and furious that the wall was the only thing holding her up, and she could scarcely breathe.

This was all her fault. _She_ was the older one. _She_ was the level-headed Ravenclaw. She was supposed to balance out her headstrong Gryffindor brother. She had known all along that this had been a bad idea, she'd had misgivings from the start, but she hadn't put her foot down; she _should_ have and she hadn't and so this was _all – her own – bloody – stupid – fault_.

And she couldn't even _try_ her idea for putting things right if she _couldn't find Seth_.

So she leaned against the wall in the dark and sobbed like a child.

OOOOO

Ronnelle had just about sobbed herself into complete exhaustion before Seth, having only just regained consciousness himself, groggily called her name. He had to call her a couple of times, actually, before his voice, raspy and slurred from unconsciousness, managed to break through the barrier of her tears.

"Ronnelle. Ronnelle? _Ronnelle!_"

Ronnelle, who had felt her way, in the dark, far enough along the wall to find a corner of the room, and then wedged herself tightly into it and slid back down to the floor, finally registered her brother's voice through her own sobs and looked up sharply, choking on a fresh spate of tears.

"Seh – heth?" she managed unsteadily, her mind already insisting that she was getting her hopes up for nothing; that she was only hearing what she fervently _wanted _to hear.

But no; it wasn't mere wishful thinking. A second later he spoke again out of the darkness. His voice was marginally stronger now. "Ronnelle, where are you? Are you okay?"

"Oh God, _Seth!_" she half-whispered, half-shrieked. She launched herself toward the sound of his voice. "Say something else so I can find you!"

It had dawned on her, belatedly, that the complete and utter blackness of their surroundings had to be magically induced. If it were ordinary darkness, there was just no way her eyes would not have adjusted, to some degree at least, by now.

Yet her eyes had _not _adjusted; not at all. She still couldn't see her own hand held an inch away from the tip of her nose. So the darkness was false; which meant that it could actually be _any_ time of day or night. Any time at all.

Which was a terribly unsettling thought.

It was just such a _profound_ sense of helplessness, knowing nothing, nothing at all, of either their whereabouts or even whether it was light or dark outside.

But never mind. They hadn't been separated. That was the important thing, the only thing that mattered. And darkness or no darkness, once she connected with Seth she could put her escape plan (_let it work let it work oh God PLEASE let it work and I'll never ask for anything ever again I swear, God, I swear_) into action.

" 'Nell, I'm over here." On her hands and knees, she followed the sound of his voice as he added, sounding close to tears himself now, "where _are_ we?"

"I don't know, but I'm coming to you, hold on."

A moment later her groping hands found him and she folded him into her arms in a tight, almost frantic hug.

She held him that way for a space of several heartbeats as tears, silent now, continued to slip down her cheeks. Finally Seth reached up and pressed the palm of one hand to her flushed, sticky, fever-hot face.

"Don't, 'Nell," he whispered. "Please don't. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry – "

His voice galvanized her into action. "It's all right," she murmured, with a lot more conviction than she actually felt, "everything's all right. I don't know where we are, but we're getting out of here, now." She groped for his hand in the dark. "Seth, hold up your hand, okay?"

He did so and a second later she was grasping it and dropping something small and hard into his palm, folding his fingers around it. "It's a ring," she whispered, by way of explanation. She had just pulled it from her own finger. "Put it on, right now, whatever finger it fits the most snugly, all right? For God's sake, don't drop it – it's so dark in here!"

"It's on, 'Nell," he whispered back a moment later. "Why? Is it supposed to be doing something?"

"God, I hope so," was her fervent reply. "Matt only just gave it to me, because I'd been having… bad dreams. He said there's a charm on it that I could activate if I was ever in danger, and the ring will act like a portkey and take me to wherever he is. If I hold onto you, it should take us both, so just – "

"Hey, wait a minute," Seth interrupted, his voice suddenly rife with suspicion. He was hot-headed, but he was _not _dumb, and something about this just didn't add up right. "If all we have to do is hold onto each other and it'll take us both, then why put it on _me_ in the first place? Why can't I just hold onto _you?_"

And of course, he had cut straight to the very heart of the problem.

Because she _didn't_ know that it would transport them both. She hoped it would; she prayed that it would with every fiber of her being. But she didn't _know_.

All she knew for sure was that, assuming the charm even worked, it would transport the wearer of the ring to wherever Matthew Potter was – in other words, to safety. Which was precisely why she'd just given the ring to Seth.

And Seth was dangerously close to figuring that out for himself – and if he did there would be a whole dramatic scene and Merlin, they didn't have _time_ for that right now.

"Seth, damn it all, stop wasting time with idiotic questions," she hissed. It was a weak rejoinder and she knew it, but she had to break her brother's train of thought before he could see it through to its logical conclusion.

"Now I want you to just _shut up and listen_," she continued, making her voice deliberately harsh in order to give him something else to focus on besides the question of the ring. She could give a _piss_ at this point if she hurt his bloody feelings, just as long as she managed to get him out safe. "All you have to do is tur – "

But she never got a chance to tell him how to activate the charm. Because at that moment the door of their prison opened, a woman's cold, cruel voice sneered "_Lumos!_" and light – light so harshly brilliant that it seemed to burn her eyes – flooded the room.

And then things got really… really… bad.

OOOOO

Narcissa wasted no time in getting down to business. It had been less than an hour since Luke had _Stupefied_ the two youngsters – her _grandchildren_, and what a stomach-churning thought _that_ was – and it was high time to get the show on the road. The past hour had been spent in attempting to discern the whereabouts of either of the children's parents, because a good old-fashioned torture session was always so much more rewarding when performed in front of a… really _appreciative_ audience… but unfortunately neither her traitorous son _nor_ the mudblood were readily accessible at the moment. Hermione was apparently still safely ensconced in the Potter household (damned annoying that was), and Draco was… Draco was not where Luke had left him. Which was concerning… but only slightly.

_Wherever_ Draco was, he was too late to alter the course of events now.

She would just have to hope that he'd arrive in time to witness the grand finale – and, of course, in a weakened enough state (Luke had assured her this would, in fact, be the case) that he'd be able to do nothing but watch.

Just sit back, relax, and take it all in.

Whoever said that torture – or for that matter, _murder_ – wasn't a spectator sport?

But in the interim, there was certainly nothing wrong with getting this little family reunion underway. And she believed that the first order of business would be to take a good, hard look at Draco's children – children who had the _audacity_ to carry her own blood in their filthy, polluted veins.

Walking abominations, the both of them.

Her eyes were drawn first to the rumpled cascade of silver-white hair; that gorgeous, trademark Malfoy hair that no child of a mudblood had any business possessing. That would be the older one; the girl. The boy, she'd noticed back when Luke had _Stupefied_ them, had the same common, dung-colored hair as his mother.

Her eyes narrowed as she took Ronnelle in; of the two of them, Narcissa concluded, she was actually the worse offender – because she gave the appearance of being an absolutely perfectly pedigreed, pureblooded Malfoy heiress.

And she had no _right _to look like that, no right at all. _Impostor! _Narcissa's frenzied mind screamed furiously. _You dirty, wretched little impostor!_

That hair, in particular, enraged Narcissa; in no small part because it was thicker, more lustrous, more _beautiful_ than Narcissa's own. Narcissa's hair was the color of pale gold, whereas Ronnelle's was the color of platinum – and it's common knowledge that platinum is more precious than gold.

Narcissa may have had claim to the Malfoy name, but the hair stood as a stark reminder that this girl actually had the Malfoy _genes_ – and she had no right to them either.

So Narcissa was seething with hatred and angry enough to spit nails as she stalked across the room, seized a handful of that incredible pale hair, and yanked Ronnelle onto her feet by it.

OOOOO

Ronnelle, for her part, was caught totally off-guard, having slammed her eyes shut and then thrown up her arms to further shield them from the onslaught of that horrible, cruel blast of light. She wasn't even aware of Narcissa crossing the room until that merciless claw of a hand fisted in her hair and dragged her, even as she voiced a hoarse cry of protest, onto her feet.

Then she heard Seth shout out her name, his voice cracking with panicked fear, and quite suddenly everything changed. With a conscious act of will; a deliberately manufactured defiance of the horrific situation in which she now found herself, she forced her mind into a state of cold, stoic and completely detached calm. _Nothing _mattered anymore except protecting Seth. She could, and would, bear the brunt of whatever this woman – this walking incarnation of evil who looked so unsettlingly like Ronnelle herself – had in store for them. She would take it all; her share _and _Seth's. And there was no point in wasting time, energy, or focus in wondering whether that would even be possible to do.

It _had_ to be possible. There was no alternative. Period.

She was not Draco's daughter for nothing. When her storm-grey eyes snapped open they were nearly as cold, and as _angry_, as Narcissa's; and flickering with their own strange, deep fire.

_I don't know who you are. I don't know where you came from. I don't know why you look like me, and I don't know why you hate us. But you __**will not**__ hurt my brother. Not while there's breath in my body._

_You will not._

Eyes skimming briefly over her surroundings before narrowing and focusing on the older woman before her, Ronnelle was distantly surprised to find that their prison had been, all along, merely her parents' bedroom. So they _were _still at home. They hadn't been taken away. It seemed to her on a distant, unconnected level that this should be important information. And perhaps later it _would_ be. But for the moment, she simply filed it away in the back of her mind. For the moment, nothing mattered except standing between this monster, and Seth.

Now that she'd regained her feet, Narcissa abruptly released her and stepped back a pace to take her in. Ronnelle staggered, clasping a hand automatically to her head, which was still screaming in pain; but even so, she stepped quite surely and deliberately to the side, placing herself more fully in between Narcissa and Seth, who had scrambled to his feet just behind her.

Breathing hard, her heart hammering in her ears, her mind now firmly closed to any emotion save an implacable determination to protect her younger brother, she faced down her grandmother glare for glare.

And Narcissa, in spite of herself, was very nearly impressed.

The girl was hurt, confused, and frightened – Narcissa knew she was; she _had_ to be – and had obviously just been crying. Long and hard, from the look of her flushed, tear-damp face. Yet, for all that, she was now standing perfectly erect before her, intentionally using her body (a slim, well-formed body, Narcissa noticed, as she calmly and coldly assessed every physical detail of her granddaughter) to shield the younger child, and staring back at Narcissa with the cool poise of a Slytherin debutante… coupled with the simmering fury of an incensed Death Eater.

Merlin, she looked every inch a Malfoy in that moment… Narcissa even felt, incredibly, a brief pang of regret that the other half of this child's legacy was so wretchedly, damnably, _incontrovertibly_ inferior.

But the circumstances were what they were. The girl, outward appearances aside, was an absolute blight on the Malfoy name and bloodline. And for that she had to suffer. And then, eventually, once Draco had arrived to bear witness, she had to die.

But, Narcissa decided, since she was obviously so hell-bent on protecting her brother, it would be rather more fun to allow her to watch _him_ suffer a while first. And in any case, Luke had requested the privilege of being the one to torment the girl… for the most part, anyway. (Narcissa had a pretty good idea of what he had in mind, and found it distasteful, to say the least… but then, he _was_ seventeen, and boys would be boys. The important thing was that the girl would suffer – and of _that_, Narcissa had little doubt.)

Still, if the brother were to be Narcissa's initial target, then the girl needed to be… incapacitated… in order to allow her access. She obviously was not about to simply step aside on her own. So Narcissa raised her wand, leveled it at the girl, who sucked in a sharp, anticipatory breath, pale eyes going wide – and murmured, almost gently,

"_Crucio_."

OOOOO

Draco gave a hoarse, cracked shout of pain and fell hard to his knees, both hands clasped to his head, fisted in his hair as the completely unexpected wall of pain smashed into him. For a few seconds the world actually pitched; tilted; and went grey around the edges, but he fought his way through it with a grim and savage determination. He was almost to the point where he could Apparate, he was sure of it – and he _would not_ black out now, he would not.

It was a close thing, though, for a moment or two.

He'd been hurting already, after all, in the aftermath of his little… confrontation with Luke. That was why it was taking him so goddamn bloody long to stagger his way from Snape's house (_and where in the bloody hell IS Severus?! I need him right now, I _really_ need him!_) to the nearest Apparition-accessible point. He had thought the wards only extended a quarter-mile from the house, but as it turned out he'd been mistaken. Severus Snape, who had lived through not just one but _both_ ascendancies of Lord Voldemort, a first-hand witness to all of the murder and mayhem that had accompanied them, apparently took home security very seriously – even more seriously than Draco had been aware of.

He'd tried to Apparate at roughly the quarter-mile point, and then, again, with increasing desperation, at the half-mile point as well. Nothing had happened either time.

But he had to be getting close now, he _had_ to be – the wards couldn't possibly extend for more than a _full mile_, could they?

_Could they?_

No. No bloody way. No no no no way.

Because if they did, he'd be screwed. And he couldn't afford to be screwed. Not with his family on the line.

So they just couldn't. It was that simple. They just bloody well couldn't.

He'd already lost so much time – _so goddamn much time!_ – stumbling through these woods in the dark, in the first place. That was why he'd decided a moment ago, now frantic with worry about his children, his wife, to try reaching them with his mind.

He'd tried for Hermione first, and had gotten nothing. There really was something wrong, deeply and fundamentally wrong, with his magical abilities if he couldn't even manage to sense his own wife. He was so _used_ to reaching out to check on Hermione with his mind – just a brief touch, a skim across the surface; nothing invasive, just a quick spark of connection to make sure she was all right – it had become second nature to him over the years of his marriage.

He should have been able to do it from half a world away. He should have had no trouble even if he were stuck in bloody Timbuktu! And yet tonight – tonight, when it _really mattered_, when it _REALLY FUCKING MATTERED, God-fucking-damn it all_ – there was nothing. Nothing at all.

_What did he do to my magic, what did he do, what the FUCK did he do!?_

He had tried for Seth next, again without any results whatsoever.

And that was when, practically snarling from fear and frustration, he'd reached out for Ronnelle.

And he had gotten – he had been _slammed with_ – this.

"Oh, my God," he gasped out sickly. On his hands and knees now, he was struggling against a physical urge to throw up. "Oh my God, Ronnelle… no… sweetheart, no… please, please _no_…"

They had his daughter. Luke and Narcissa. That was all this could mean. His beautiful, bright, spirited little Ravenclaw, who carried one-third of his heart with her at all times. They were _torturing his DAUGHTER_.

_Ronnelle_…_ no_…

His firstborn… his perfect… precious… child… and for her pain to reach him so clearly, so powerfully, while he was in such a weakened magical state that he couldn't pick up on his other family members at _all_ –

That meant that the sheer… _quantity_… of what she was feeling must be… must be…

Beyond comprehension.

_No, please no, __**fuck**__ no, RONNELLE, NO! _

_Leave her alone. You fucking bastards, leave my daughter alone. _

All at once, almost as if his anguished plea had somehow been heard and responded to, the pain ceased. One instant it was there, and in the next instant there was just… nothing. Nothing at all. Panting, he listed sideways, fetching up against the trunk of a tree.

She'd passed out. She must have passed out.

They had tortured… his only daughter… into unconsciousness.

A horrible, sinister, cruel little corner of his mind woke up then, whispering in the back of his head that maybe, just _maybe_, it wasn't unconsciousness at all. Sure, Ronnelle passing out _could_ have caused their connection to sever like that… but unconsciousness wasn't the _only_ thing that could sever the bond that suddenly and completely. No, not the only thing by a long shot. Why, he could think of two little words just off the top of his head, two little words that might have severed their connection _very_ neatly indeed. Not to mention, _permanently_ –

"No." His voice was a bare, hoarse whisper. He wasn't going to go there.

He wasn't going to go there.

Because if he did, he would cease to be of any use to his family at all.

He would just… lie down… in the dirt… and wait. Wait for death to take him, too.

"No," he said again, his voice gaining strength and conviction as he spoke. "No, Ronnelle." He was getting to his feet now; the seething, spitting, roiling hatred and pure, white-hot rage that were coursing, suddenly, through his body giving him new strength; a second wind.

"No, sweetheart. You're okay. You're _going to be okay_." He'd used the tree for support while pulling himself to his feet, but he shoved away from it now and resumed his trek, still stumbling, but this time almost at a run. His face, had anyone been around to see it at that moment, was frightening. He was pale as wax, with the notable exception of two bright fever-spots of color burning high on his cheeks. His eyes were positively _blazing_ with hatred, and the will – no, the _need_ – to rip, and tear, and kill.

"I promise, Ronnelle. I promise you, sweetheart. You're going to be just fine. I'm coming. Daddy's coming. Hold on, princess.

Hold on."


	15. River of Tears

In truth, Ronnelle had not passed out when Draco had lost the connection with her

In truth, Ronnelle had not passed out when Draco had lost the connection with her. It was more like she had… _grayed_ out. She knew that she'd been standing nearly toe-to-toe with _The Horrible Woman_ in one instant – and that in the next instant she'd been on the floor screaming screaming _screaming_ as her body was stabbed and slashed by a thousand knives of fire – and that an instant after that, she was lying half on her back, half on her side, like a rag-doll that's been tossed aside by a careless child, dragging in her arms (they felt as if they weighed fifty pounds each) to wrap protectively around her middle, and gasping in harsh, painful breaths through a throat that was burning from all of her screams.

It seemed that she was seeing – and hearing – the world through a thick, gray veil, and that everything had slowed down somehow – everything except her heart, which was racing.

So she was no position to do anything except whisper hoarsely "_Seth – NO!_" as her little brother virtually launched himself over her, throwing himself toward the woman with an enraged shout of "leave my sister _alone_, you stupid _old HAG!_"

He could hardly have chosen more effective words for the purpose of outraging his grandmother, who was after all an extraordinarily vain woman. Her face twisted into a hideous rictus of fury, making her appear in that instant to be the very thing Seth had just _accused_ her of being – and yet it was not Narcissa who cursed Seth a half-second later. Luke, who'd been lounging in the doorway behind his mother, taking in the show, beat her to it.

How _dare_ that little half-blood insult his mother?

"_Crucio_," he spat, giving his wand a cursory flick in the twelve-year-old's direction.

The curse drove Seth to his knees with a raw shout of pain.

"_NO!_" Ronnelle rasped again, scrambling to her knees – (which was no easy matter; her entire body felt leaden, and wholly uncooperative, wracked now with violent tremors; aftershocks of the curse) – and threw herself on top of Seth, knocking him the rest of the way to the floor and pinning him there, shielding his body with her own and effectively shunting Luke's curse off of her brother and onto herself.

And there it was again; that pain beyond pain, beyond description, beyond endurance.

This time, for a good several moments at least, she did black out.

OOOOO

Hermione sat on the sofa that Ronnelle had been using as a bed. She sat "Indian Style", with her legs tucked in under her body.

She was remembering.

When Ronnelle had been five years old, Hermione had enrolled her in a Muggle primary school. Draco had been a bit leery at first, but Hermione had put her foot down, insisting that no child of _hers_ was going to go without schooling until the age of eleven. Of course Ronnelle would go to Hogwarts when the time came; so for that matter would Seth, who had been two years old when his big sister started kindergarten. But in the mean time, a Muggle education would do nicely, thank you very much. Hermione had researched carefully and found a school, not too far away, that actually had a Squib on the faculty (unbeknownst to the school, of course) and this allowed Hermione the additional reassurance that someone with a working knowledge of the wizarding world would be around to keep an eye on her daughter. It also solved the problem of the commute. With the woman's full and indeed enthusiastic cooperation, Hermione had arranged to have her house, which was only a block away from the school, hooked up to the floo network. In this way, Hermione and Ronnelle flooed to and from school each day; in return for which privilege, Hermione brought breakfast for the woman's family several mornings a week.

It actually hadn't taken Draco very long to come around, either. On the very first "Parents' Night" that Hermione dragged him to, once he saw for himself the bright, cheerful, toy-filled room – so obviously a _happy_ place – he was sold. By the end of the night she'd had to take him by the elbow and quite literally pull him away from a small group of Muggle fathers who'd been having a spirited, if good-natured, debate over which child's artwork, displayed on the classroom bulletin board, was the best.

He had even taken the liberty of setting up a parent / teacher conference with Ronnelle's teacher, Miss Francine; a middle-aged spinster who, much to Hermione's amusement, developed a deep and abiding crush on Draco that very evening.

It would be the first of many such conferences over the years. Until Ronnelle was about eight years old, all Draco and Hermione would hear from her teachers was what an astounding imagination their daughter had. "_Elves in the kitchen, dragons in the woods, football played on broomsticks, trained birds delivering the post – my goodness, I've been teaching here for fifteen years and have never encountered anything quite like her! She's an absolute delight – a breath of fresh air, when all her classmates ever talk or write about is the latest show on TV. You must be a family of readers, am I right? Yes, I thought so! One can always tell_."

Eight years of age seemed to be the line of demarcation; the point at which Ronnelle began to fully comprehend the fact that she was living in one world and attending school in another. She began to understand the deep and fundamental differences between Muggles and wizard-kind, and to use a great deal more discretion while at school. After that, Draco and Hermione didn't hear as much about what a rampant imagination their child possessed… but they never stopped hearing how amazingly, exceptionally bright she was.

But in any event – back to that very first year; back to kindergarten, and Miss Francine. Hermione had volunteered twice a week as a "class mother", staying in Ronnelle's classroom throughout the day, helping the teacher in a myriad of small, but nevertheless greatly appreciated, ways. And something that she'd heard Miss Francine say to the children, over and over again, as she was gathering them up for story time, was this; "come on now, gather round, and sit criss-cross-applesauce, if you please."

Criss-cross-applesauce. Yes, that was it. That was the term she'd been trying to remember.

Why had she been trying to remember it, again?

Oh, right. Because that was how _she_ was sitting at the moment. Another term for Indian Style, with her legs tucked in beneath her. Criss-cross-applesauce, yes.

Of course.

Her mind had been doing this to her for the better part of an hour, you see. Flying away on wild tangents triggered by some vague, half-defined memory from one of her children's younger years.

It was because they had drugged her tea.

Her children – oh God, her _children_ – were out there somewhere in mortal danger, she knew it, she just _knew_ it… and she was doing nothing for them. Because either Harry or Ginny – (she couldn't remember which one but it hardly mattered; Harry and Ginny were more or less a single entity, just as she and Draco had been before – well, before) – had pressed a mug of hot tea into her hand once the worst of her hysterics had passed, and she'd gulped half of down immediately, almost reflexively.

She glanced down at the mug, which sat in her lap, nestled in the empty middle space made by her crossed legs (criss-cross-applesauce, children, gather round.) It was cold now, and still half-full. Thank Merlin she'd figured it out before she'd downed the rest, or she'd almost certainly be in a deep, dreamless, drug-induced sleep by now.

As it was, they'd restrained her from running outside to Apparate, and Ginny had removed the jar of floo powder when she'd left the room a little while ago to answer baby Lily's cries, apparently judging that Hermione was sufficiently (_drugged_) calm to be trusted on her own for a few minutes.

Harry had Apparated immediately, of course, taking Matthew, side-along, with him. He had not initially intended to take his son, but Matt, with his dark eyes shooting off sparks and his fists so tightly clenched that his nails were digging little crescent-shaped gouges into the flesh of his palms, had managed to convince him otherwise. It had been as plain as day that _nothing_ was going to keep Matt at home; that if his father Apparated without him he'd simply jump on his broomstick and consequences be damned… so Harry had apparently decided that at least this way he could keep an eye on his son.

But they'd been gone a long time now – it felt like an eternity to Hermione – and they had neither come back nor sent news. And so she could no longer sit here, safe and warm, while her children were in danger. Thankfully, the strongest effects of whatever sedative they'd managed to slip her finally seemed to be dissipating. Her head was clearing and her resolve was hardening. She wasn't angry at Harry and Ginny for trying to protect her – they'd only been doing what they thought best. Regardless, however, it was time to take some action of her own.

With hands that felt nerveless and numb, she carefully picked up the cold mug of tea and placed it on the end table beside the sofa. Then, with equal care and concentration, she unfolded herself from her place on the couch and stood. She swayed dangerously for a second or two, but managed, through a conscious act of will, to get herself under control.

Without even being precisely aware of it, she pressed one hand protectively to her stomach. She knew, on some distant and unconnected level, that she was placing her youngest child in peril by attempting to follow the older two… but there was no other decision she could make. Seth and Ronnelle needed her; every fiber of her being was screaming at her that this was true.

She had to get to them. Had to.

Slowly, moving almost like a sleepwalker, she crossed the room and opened the door. A glance up and down the corridor showed her that the coast was clear; Lily had stopped fussing which meant that Ginny, most likely, was in the baby's room nursing. Moving slowly was important now, for all that her instincts were screaming for haste. She had to make it look, in the unlikely event that Ginny _were_ to come along, as if she was simply going to bed.

She started to make for the guest room, then had a thought and turned around, heading for the kitchen. There, she selected a knife from one of Ginny's drawers – not so large as to be unwieldy, but large enough to do some damage, oh yes – and slipped it into the pocket of her robe. Then she glided, trancelike, down the hallway and up the stairs to the guest room.

Locking herself in, she pocketed her wand as well; then, still barefoot, wearing nothing but her robe over a nightshirt (an old, oversized Quidditch jersey of Draco's that fell to her knees) and panties, she maneuvered open the window and slipped out onto the sill. A quick, murmured spell allowed her to float gently from the second story window to the ground below – and after that it was a simple matter, really, of getting herself outside the Potter home's protective circle of wards so that she could Apparate.

OOOOO

Ronnelle came to still halfway draped over Seth. She opened her eyes and saw nothing but white… it took her a long, groggy moment to realize that she was looking at her own hair, lying across her face, obscuring her vision. She raised a hand to push it away, out of her eyes, and even such a small motion as this caused a low groan to be wrenched from her throat.

Every inch of her body ached. No, more than ached – screamed. This… this whole situation… was horrific beyond belief, beyond comprehension. This couldn't be happening. Things like this just _didn't happen_. Maybe in times of war, she'd heard stories over the years, but… in peaceful times and to ordinary people like her?

They just didn't.

Her mind was shutting down; attempting to protect itself by refusing to believe that this was real. Was she dreaming? Maybe that was it – another nightmare. _Wake up_, she willed herself, but even her mind's inner voice, which should have been screaming, was woozy and dull. _Wake up, wake up, please wake up_…

Nothing happened.

_Oh, God. This can't be real. It CAN'T be. Because if it's real, that means we're going to die here. Oh Merlin, please – I want my dad._

A fresh surge of tears flooded her eyes, causing her vision to swim out of focus. She swallowed hard, and almost passed out again; her throat hurt that much. She was, she distantly realized, _brutally_ thirsty as well.

Beneath her, Seth stirred and whimpered. _Oh, fuck – SETH_. Once again, instantaneously, _instinctively_ – she remembered, wholly and completely and without hesitation or question, that Seth was the only thing that mattered now.

And also that he was still wearing the ring – Matt's charmed ring.

Rallying all of her strength and resolve, she shifted her weight off of Seth and forced herself to sit up. The room pitched at a crazy angle, an intense wave of nausea washing over her; and tiny black starbursts darkening her vision around the edges.

She had… to protect Seth… she had… to get him out of here. But first she just… needed to put her head down… for a second, and fight through this. Leaning her weight on one hand, she pressed her other arm across her stomach, willing it to settle – vomiting all over Seth would do him no good at all – and then she pulled her knees up to her chest and dropped her forehead onto them.

Sitting like that with her eyes closed, she realized that her entire body was still shaking like a leaf, and also that the room itself seemed to be rocking back and forth, slowly but surely, like a ship on high waters. She swallowed thickly again. The nausea was not going away.

"Please help," she whispered into the dark, protected little space she'd made for herself by nestling her face into her knees. "Somebody… help us… Daddy… Matt… oh Merlin, _please_."

But no one was coming. Why wasn't anyone coming? Why didn't anyone _care?_

More tears – an endless river of tears, it seemed – were leaking slowly, steadily from her eyes when she raised her head again. _I don't think I can do this on my own. I just wanna go to sleep_…

But she had to do it on her own, because there was no one else there to do it for her. She was all that stood between Seth and… between Seth and… and she didn't _know_ what –

And she didn't _want_ to know.

The first thing she saw when she looked about herself was that Luke and the woman – the monster-woman – were still standing just inside the door, now deep in conversation with each other. She could hear their voices, but not make out their words. There was a strange buzzing, ringing sensation in her ears that was pounding, it seemed, in time with her heart. She started to shake her head in an attempt to clear it – and then stopped. That would be a mistake. A _bad_ mistake.

The room was already pitching and tilting like a carnival ride stuck in slow-motion, and sliding repeatedly in and out of focus just for good measure. Shaking her head would _not_ be wise just now.

At least it seemed their tormenters were otherwise engaged for the time-being. And all she needed was a moment, just a moment, God willing, please…

She turned her head, and then her leaden, protesting body, toward her brother. He'd curled into a fetal position on his side, facing away from her.

"Seth," she breathed, her voice barely audible, both because she was so, so tired and also because everything depended now on her escaping the notice of the two people by the door. She placed a hand on his shoulder and, gritting her teeth with the effort (_Merlin, when had Seth gotten so heavy?_) pulled him over, toward her, onto his back. He was breathing in short, sharp little bursts. His eyes, she saw, were open – but they were distant, dazed and dull.

She thought he might be in shock.

At that point her own strength largely gave out and she collapsed beside him, one arm draping protectively across his chest as she groped for his hands, searching for the ring; her other hand tangled gently in his sweat-dampened hair, stroking it back from his temples.

She found his right hand – no ring there – and reached across his body for the left, grabbing his wrist and dragging his arm in against his side. Her fingers skimmed across his and there – _there_ – she felt the little band of etched metal encircling his index finger.

"Seth, I love you," she whispered. "This'll all be over in a minute – hold on."

_Three times – the charm was that simple. All she had to do was turn the ring clockwise on his finger three times_. She grasped it and turned it once. Seth blinked and his dark eyes finally focused and locked onto her pale ones. He swallowed hard. "Ronnelle?" he croaked. "Wha – what're you - ?"

"S'okay." She turned the ring again, relief beginning to wash over her in a cool, blessed wave. " It's okay. It's over." She was turning it the final time. "You're sa – "

And then she was grabbed, for the second time, by a fistful of her hair, and yanked backward and away from her brother, the ring a half-turn from freedom; freedom maybe for both of them, but at the very least for Seth, and she was screaming then, screaming and kicking and fighting with every last reserve of strength she had – weak and disoriented and nauseous, yes – but also out of her mind, now, with helpless, cheated frustration.

"No! _No! NOOOO – !!_" She'd been so close – so impossibly, horrendously close. Seth was struggling up onto his knees now, his eyes still locked on hers, trying to regain his feet and not quite succeeding. "_Seth_," she shrieked, "_listen _to me! You _have to turn the_ – "

And then she was yanked around to face her captor, and she just had time to register the fact that it was Luke who held her now – the woman, in actuality, no longer appeared to be present in the room at all – and then he drove a fist, the one that wasn't currently twisted in her hair, straight into her stomach with vicious, breath stealing force.

He released her then and Ronnelle doubled over, arms moving to cross over her stomach, and the world was slowing down again, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, couldn't _breathe_, and Seth was shouting something but she couldn't hear what… and then she fell sideways to the floor…

And grayed out again.

OOOOO

An indeterminate amount of time later, she felt herself being hauled upward once more – though this time, at least, she was seized under her arms rather than by her hair. Her legs would not support her; they buckled instantly, sending her crashing ungracefully into Luke's chest.

At that point he actually chuckled – she heard the sound of it as if across a vast, empty, echoing space.

And that was when she understood – really and truly and _completely_ understood – dull, hopeless horror crashing over her like a tsunami wave – that he was honest-to-God, actually _enjoying _this.

Really… _really_… enjoying it.

Oh, God help her – who _was_ this person that had been sharing her home all summer long? That had been eating meals with her and playing Quidditch with her – joking with her, and sleeping just down the hall? True, she'd never completely warmed to him – but she'd just assumed that would take a little time, was all.

Never in her darkest, wildest imaginings could she have foreseen… _this_.

Then he thrust her backward, none too gently, against the nearest wall. The impact wasn't as bad as being punched in the stomach had been, but it still knocked the wind out of her and she smacked her head hard enough to see stars. Her back to the wall, she started to slide floorward, but Luke pinned her in place with his hands on her shoulders and one knee driving hard between her thighs.

He leaned in then, lips almost grazing her ear – (causing a hard, involuntary shudder of fear and revulsion to rip through her) – as he spoke her name.

"Ronnelle."

His voice was strangely, perversely, _terrifyingly_ tender.

"Ronnelle, are you hearing me at all?"

She didn't answer; just closed her eyes and turned her head away. It was the most she could summon in the way of resistance at the moment.

"Ronnelle." His voice took on a half-mocking, half-threatening tone. "Now, you don't really think it's a good idea to ignore me, do you? When all it would take is a flick of my wrist to have Seth over there screaming his throat bloody under the Cruciatus again? Hm?"

Ronnelle's breath caught.

"That _isn't_ what you want, Ronnelle," Luke pressed on, "_is_ it?"

She swallowed hard and opened her eyes again, looking first over his shoulder, for Seth. She felt a brief surge of gratitude for the fact that he was sitting up, albeit leaning heavily against the wall opposite her; awake and apparently alert. This was followed quickly, however, by a sick, swooping rush of despair as she realized that his hands were now restrained, somehow, behind his back. Luke must have used _Incarcerous_ on him while she'd been curled on the floor a few moments ago, semi-conscious and struggling to breathe. He was staring straight back at her, his dark fringe hanging forward, into his eyes. As she looked he shook his head once, hard, and his lips moved – but no sound came from his mouth. He must have been _Silencio'd_ as well.

Fresh tears pressed at the backs of her eyes. Every time she thought that surely, _surely_ the situation could get no worse, it did. She was never going to get Seth out of here. She'd been half a turn away – half a turn of that bloody stupid ring – and now…

She couldn't reach him.

He couldn't reach her.

She could shout at him turn the ring himself, but there were not one, but _two_ fatal flaws to that particular plan of action. The first was that, without being able to see Seth's hands from where she was, she had no way of knowing if he'd even be physically able to comply. His hands could well be bound in such a way that turning the ring on his own would be impossible.

And the second was that, of course, he'd never do it anyway. He wouldn't leave her. _God DAMN it_. She could see it in his eyes – the hurt and shock were still there, but they'd been superceded now by something else.

There was _anger_ now; a heavy, simmering, protective anger that looked just absurdly incongruous on a face so young – and was shot through and sustained by a thick under-layer of that trademark Seth Malfoy stubbornness.

That Gryffindor stubbornness that ran both deep and wide through the very core of him.

Why, oh _why_ did she have to have a bloody Gryffindor for a brother!?

A Slytherin would have been long gone.

_You can't protect me now_, she wanted to scream at him; _you can't protect me, Seth, no one can, so just get out of here already, for God's sake – for MY sake – please please __**please**__ get the HELL OUT!_

But he would never listen. If she shouted out the secret of the ring, Luke would simply let her crash to the floor, and go over there and take it away from Seth. Seth's face told her that with all the assurance of an open book.

And so… it was all over.

She tore her eyes away from Seth and turned to face Luke, gulping back a sob as she did so. "I don't… uhn-unner-sta-hand," she whispered brokenly. "Wha… why is this happening? Tell me Luke, please."

That was the Ravenclaw in her, surfacing despite everything. Even in a situation like this, she needed the answers; she needed to know _why_.

He grinned at her then, actually _grinned_ at her; and it was the most twisted, evil expression she'd ever seen on a human being's face. "Poor Ronnelle," he drawled, "your perfect, sheltered little world's just come crashing down around you, hasn't it? Right then, I'll level with you; perhaps you deserve that much. This really, actually, has nothing to do with you or Seth at all. It's more about making your father suffer, if you want to know the truth. But I'm not an unreasonable man, Ronnelle. I'm willing to strike a bargain with you. From here on out I will leave Seth completely alone… if _you_ agree to do _exactly_ as I say."

"If I agree, let Seth go," she said in a flat, small, hollow voice.

Luke gave a short, mirthless bark of laughter. "I'm sorry to be the one to point this out to you, love, but you're in no position to dicker with me. Seth's not _going _anywhere, but my offer stands. _You _cooperate with me; I ignore him from this moment on. Take it or leave it, Ronnelle."

"Okay," she choked out miserably. It weren't as though there were any other choice she could possibly make.

And even then – even _then_ – she had absolutely no comprehension of what was in store for her. Until Luke said, again with that strange and disturbing gentleness, "Good. I _thought_ you'd see sense. You are, after all, a very rational girl. Now… you can start by removing your shirt."

Ronnelle stopped breathing.

Really, he might just as well have punched her in the stomach again; the result was nearly identical.

Her legs even attempted to buckle again at the impact of those words – but he wouldn't allow her to fall. He was holding her in place, her back against the wall, with one of his legs wedged tight between hers… and now she finally began to register it – both its presence, and its _implications_ – in earnest.

"No." Her lips formed the word, but it was silent; she didn't seem to be able to make any sound come.

Luke simply watched her, one eyebrow slightly quirked, waiting patiently for her to process what he had just ordered her to do.

"No," she said again, now making a concerted effort to get her voice working again. It came out as an unlovely croak. "You can't. I'm… you're my… you _can't._"

"Actually, I can," he said calmly. "It's nothing personal, you know – just another way of sticking it to your father. That being the case, I believe I'd go ahead with it even if I found the idea completely repulsive… which is not to say that I _do_, of course. I think I'll end up enjoying this quite a bit. So – I'm not going to ask you again. Either you do as I say _when_ I say, or else I shall consider you to have breached our agreement. In which case – " he jerked his head meaningfully toward Seth, behind him on the floor – "all bets are off. It's entirely your choice, Ronnelle."

A last, tiny flame of defiance was still burning, despite everything, in Ronnelle's wide, shocked, horrified eyes. It flickered there, dimly, fitfully, like a candle-flame in a strong wind.

"If you're really just trying to hurt my dad," she whispered hoarsely, "you needn't bother. What he doesn't know can't hurt him, and I will never, ever, _ever_ tell him. Never."

Luke just grinned again. "You know, I believe you," he said. "You really would suffer in silence, to spare him such incredibly hurtful knowledge. But even if _you_ don't tell him… well, there's always still little brother, isn't there? You don't think for a minute that he'll be able to keep _his_ mouth shut… do you?"

Her eyes flew to Seth once more as her mind, which actually seemed to be slowing down now, as if positively _drugged_ with horror, struggled to grasp the concept that – _oh my God. He can't… actually mean for Seth to… to __**watch**__ this… can he? Please, please, no._

_This isn't happening. Not to me. It can't be. I'm not here, I'm not here, I'm really really really not…_

Seth was fighting hard against his restraints now, having caught on himself, apparently, to Luke's intentions concerning his sister. Commanding her to undress hadn't exactly been subtle, after all. Catching her eye, he shook his head frantically; and she could tell that he was shouting, too, though of course he was shouting in silence.

She didn't have to hear his voice, though, to know what he was saying. _Exactly_ what he was saying. He was screaming at her to forget about _him_, damnit, forget about him and for Merlin's sake, _fight back!_

It was more than she could bear. Because of course, what he was asking of her was not an option. So she tore her eyes away from his and slammed them shut for good measure, causing two fat tears to overspill and slide down her cheeks in perfect unison. They extinguished that last little spark of defiance – of _spirit_ – that had been clinging to life behind her eyes.

It would be a long, _long_ time before it ever rekindled.

"I'm through being patient with you, Ronnelle," Luke murmured then. "You're not a stupid girl. You know what the choices are. Torturing Seth into permanent insanity could be almost, I think, as much fun for me as having my way with _you_… so what's it going to be, love? You're out of time."

Slowly, numbly, she shrugged first one shoulder out of her baby-pink satin bathrobe; then the other, allowing it to whisper gently to the floor.

Then her fingers found the buttons of her pajama top.


	16. Helpless

Ronnelle collapsed sideways to the floor – she didn't have far to fall, since she'd already been on her knees – fighting the urge to throw up with all the strength she had left.

It was a losing battle.

She managed to hold out until she heard the door shut and knew that Luke had left the room… then she was more violently ill than she'd ever been in her life. Her body would not stop heaving, even long after there was anything left to expel.

And through her mind like a mantra the entire time, ran the words _nothing happened, nothing happened, nothing happened, nothing happened, nothing happened, nothing happened_…

She didn't believe it, of course. She had far too pragmatic a personality to allow her to lie to herself like that, even when it was undoubtedly the kindest course of action.

Still, the repetitiveness was somewhat soothing in itself. Not soothing in a _things are going to be okay_ sort of way; inasmuch as she was capable of thinking clearly at that moment, Ronnelle didn't believe anything in her life was ever going to be okay again; but at least in an _I can push this back, for a few minutes anyway, and think about Seth now_ kind of way.

Because she _had_ to push it back and think about Seth.

Seth was, after all, the entire reason she had… she had… allowed and… oh, God… _participated_…

_No. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Just get to Seth_.

She pushed herself, shakily, into first a sitting, then a kneeling position. Another dry heave, punishing in its intensity, took her. The edges of her vision darkened to gray and there was a moment in which consciousness actually threatened to desert her. She blinked hard and managed to hold onto it. It wasn't that she wouldn't welcome the darkness. She would, sweet Merlin how she would. But she had to get Seth out first.

Luke had left the room, if only for a few minutes, so she finally had her chance. And she meant to take it.

She bit down hard on her lip; the subsequent bright burst of pain brought reality back into focus, allowing her to orient and ground herself. The pale pink puddle of her robe lay nearby; she grabbed it and pulled it on, wrapping it around herself with shaking fingers. It would have taken too long to struggle back into her pajamas as well; the only thing Luke had allowed her to keep on had been her knickers. He hadn't touched her… touched her… down _there_… yet; he'd just forced her to knees and made her do… _things_… oh God, the most disgusting, degrading things, with her hands and… and her _mouth_ – and Seth had seen, oh Merlin help her, Seth had seen it all.

_Seth_. He'd see more, too, if she didn't get him the hell out before Luke came back. Luke had said as much; that she'd better catch her breath and get ready for… for the… _the main attraction_, he called it. Her body heaved again – as if in a deep, instinctual protest – but this time was far less intense; she was getting a handle on it.

At long last, she raised her head and locked eyes with Seth. She'd avoided looking directly at him all this time, shamed as she was by what he had watched her do. Raising her eyes to his was one of the hardest things she'd ever done in her life – and when she saw the horrified revulsion in his expression, it was like a knife in her heart.

Then he shook his head and looked away, and the knife twisted. Still, she took a deep, steadying breath, cinched her robe a little tighter, and crawled toward him.

OOOOO

Draco appeared out of thin air, at the boundary of his home's defensive wards, accompanied by the sudden, sharp, whip-crack sound of Apparation.

He stumbled, even going down to one knee before bracing his hands on the ground and propelling himself back to his feet. It was actually a small miracle, considering the state he was in – weakened both magically and physically, and completely distracted by his fear and grief and rage – that nothing worse happened. Apparating under such conditions, he'd been a prime candidate for splinching himself.

Whether through skill or sheer dumb luck, however, he managed to arrive in one piece, and in the next instant was sprinting for the house.

An instant after _that_, he was brought up short by a chorus of shouts. Turning to the right, he saw Harry and Matt waving him down frantically from several yards away. And they weren't alone.

"Severus," he breathed. Thank _God_.

He changed course, skidding to a halt in front of the three men, breathing hard.

"Sev… Severus," he panted. "I need your help."

That alone spoke volumes. Draco Malfoy was not a man who asked for help. From anyone. _Ever_.

"When…" Draco managed, hands now braced on his knees as he tried to bring his breathing back under control, "why… how… how did you… know… to come here?"

The older man, his lean frame clad all in black per usual, only without his trademark, billowing professor's robe tonight, reached out to steady Draco, who looked on the verge of collapse. "Of course I came," he said tersely. "One look at _my_ house was enough to tell me something was seriously wrong."

"…House?" Draco echoed confusedly. He couldn't seem to make his mind work properly just now; it was taking him three times as long as normal to process simple information. "You went… _home?_... wha… _when?_"

"I don't know," Snape bit out impatiently. "Half an hour ago, maybe? But Draco, the – "

"Half a – " Draco interrupted, his voice climbing toward hysteria, "then how in the bloody _hell_ did you get _here_ before _me!?_"

Snape looked at him as if he were simple, then jerked his head toward a broomstick lying nearby in the grass. "I flew out past the boundary of my wards, then Apparated," he said slowly, as though speaking to a child.

_Flew out past the boundary._

_FLEW out past the boundary._

"Oh, fuck _me_," Draco groaned, and sat, hard, on the ground. "Mother of Merlin, _fuck me!_"

"Draco!" Snape was down on one knee beside him instantly. "What the – " His eyes raked pale-haired man's body from head to toe in an instant, widening marginally as they took in the blood clotted at his temple; the long, ragged stain on his shirt, where he'd wiped one bloody hand. "Draco, what the hell _happened?_ Where are you hurt!?"

"I'm not – I – Luke, it was Luke, and I never… even… saw it… but I – I'm fine."

"All this fucking _blood_ says otherwise!" Snape rejoined harshly – (like Draco himself, his first line of defense against anything that went wrong was anger. Pure and simple anger. It seemed to be a Slytherin trait) – "that and the fact that you don't seem to be thinking clear –"

"I said I'm FINE!" Draco shouted then, shooting back to his feet – an action which caused his head to spin, but he gritted his teeth and battled the sensation until it had passed. "If I'm not thinking clearly it's because my evil – _bastard_ – brother has my children in there, and – and Hermione, I can't _feel_ Hermione, I can't find her at all, and – "

"Hermione's not in there."

Draco's head snapped toward the source of this new voice; it was Harry.

"She's at our house, sedated." Harry's eyes were snapping with anger as he spoke. "And when all of this is said and done, Malfoy, you had better believe we're going to have some words about the way you've been treating her, particularly in light of her – "

"Can we save this?" Snape interjected. "What matters now – the _only_ thing that matters now – is getting inside that house, where my _godchildren_ are. We've been cooling our goddamn heels out here long enough!" He turned fully to Draco again. "They've done something to your security wards, Draco. What do you say you go ahead and _undo_ it?"

Draco looked blankly from one to the other. "What do you mean? What's going on with the wards?"

"_This_ is going on with the bloody wards, Malfoy," Harry ground out, and reached out in the direction of the house. A second later his hand seemed to impact something solid, with a hollow, smacking sound. He pulled it back, then smacked the air again. Or at least – it _looked_ like he was smacking thin air. But then of course, thin air did not make that very real, very solid sound when it was hit.

Actually, for that matter, thin air could not _be_ hit.

_Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck fuck fuck_.

Draco realized, with a sinking heart, that what he was actually seeing – or _not_ seeing, as the case may be – was some kind of invisible shield at work. If Snape and Harry hadn't waved him down a moment ago, he would have run into it full-tilt. He probably would have knocked himself right out cold; at the very least he'd have broken his nose. He reached out then, needing to feel it for himself.

It was as smooth and as cold and as hard as glass.

And infinitely stronger.

_I am going to fucking kill him_.

It made perfect sense though, when he thought about it. Luke would have _had_ to modify the wards, or Narcissa never could have entered the house; no one who bore any ill will to the home's occupants was supposed to be able to get inside. Yet his mother was in there all right; he was as sure of that as he'd ever been of anything.

But Luke… What about _Luke?_ If he'd been planning this from the start, then how… did… he…?

Draco almost collapsed again with the realization. Luke had gotten past the wards because he'd carried him into the house himself, unconscious. In a state of unconsciousness, Luke had borne no ill will toward _anyone_; and because it had been Draco, the head of the household, who had introduced him into the home, the wards had automatically adjusted themselves to accept his presence from that moment on.

"I brought him in," Draco whispered sickly, raising both hands and clenching them in his silver-white hair; an age-old gesture of helpless remorse and despair.

All of the pieces were falling into place. This was what Luke – his brother, his own _brother_ – had _come_ here to do. This was what he'd intended _all along_.

From the very – first – second.

Snape was giving him that look again, he realized; the one that suggested, none too subtly, that he – Draco, that is – had gone soft in the head. "Draco, he said, "for God's sake, what are you waiting for? Make with the big magic already, and get this fucking thing _down!_"

"I can't." The words were barely audible.

Silence followed. A long, spiraling moment of it.

Harry was the next to speak. "Look, Malfoy," he said, his voice harsh with suppressed fury, "do you really think this is the time to be fucking aro – "

"That's my _family_ in there, Potter!" Draco exploded then. "_MY FAMILY!_ Does it bloody well look like I'm fucking around!? I told you, goddamn it, _I can't DO it!_ I could barely Apparate here – I can barely cast _Lumos!_ Something is wrong with my magic and somehow, I don't bloody well think it's a coincidence! So get the hell off my back, Potter, and if you're here to help, then fucking HELP me! _PLEASE!_" His voice cracked on the last word. It was the voice of a man on the raw edge of panic.

And a man who was being eaten alive by guilt.

That was what finally broke through the wall of Harry's anger toward Draco; the guilt. Harry, after all, knew a thing or two about guilt himself. There were still nights – more than a few nights, actually – when the last conscious thought to flit through his mind before he succumbed to sleep was; _this isn't my life. I have no right to it. The beautiful wife, the kids, the cozy home full of love, it was all supposed to be Ron's. Everything I have was yanked away from _him_ by a curse that was meant for me. I should have been the one to die that day. It should have been me, should have been me, should have been me_...

And there were still mornings – again, more than a few – when his first waking thought was the same.

He opened his mouth to say… well, something – but Draco spoke first. And now his voice sounded strangely flat; almost dead.

"They're torturing Ronnelle."

"They're… what?" Harry managed.

Matt, for his part, rocked backward as though Draco's words had hit him like a physical blow.

"I felt it. I couldn't reach Hermione, and I couldn't reach Seth. But I felt _that_ just as plain as day. They are torturing my _child. _And I really… have no clue… just what in the _fuck_ I can do about it."

"All right," Snape said curtly, assuming control. "Standing around out here and shooting the shit isn't getting us any closer to her. We've just got to – " But he broke off abruptly, his eyes riveted on something just over Draco's shoulder, as the sharp retort of yet another arrival by Apparition tore through the air.

"Merlin's balls," he swore then. "Potter, I thought you said – "

Draco spun around, his heart lurching into his throat.

"_Hermione!_"

Barefoot, dressed only in a thin robe over an old Quidditch jersey, her hair a wild corona of dark curls around her head, his wife had just arrived on the scene and was racing toward the house exactly as he had done a few moments ago, pulling her wand from her pocket as she ran. Though the sight of her left him weak-kneed with relief that she wasn't hurt, still he did not like seeing her here right now. This was not a safe place to be; particularly since she was milliseconds away from slamming straight into Luke's barrier, just as he'd almost done himself.

"Hermione, _STOP!_"

And she did – but not in time.

Yet – and this was even more disturbing than the alternative – the impact never came.

She skidded to a stop at the frantic sound of his voice, but she'd already run farther than she should have had any right to do.

"She's in past the wards," Snape murmured incredulously.

"But how…?" That was Matt.

Draco, though – Draco knew how. There was only one explanation for why Hermione could run straight through wards that presented a solid barrier to everyone else present.

"Oh, no," he breathed.

_No, no, oh Hermione, NO_ –

If she could get through the wards, it was only because Luke had expressly _wanted_ her to get through the wards.

It was a trap.

"HERMIONE!" His voice was breaking again. "Hermione, over _here!_"

She was clearly torn. She glanced toward Draco, then back up toward the house, reaching up distractedly to push her hair out of her face with the hand that wasn't clamped, white-knuckled, around her wand.

"Hermione, _please!_"

She came. Reluctantly, still glancing over her shoulder toward the house every couple of seconds, as though fearing that one of these times, she'd look around and it simply wouldn't be there anymore – but she came.

Draco held his arms out for her, positively swamped with gratitude – Merlin, once they were clasped around her he didn't know how he'd ever manage to let go again –

But she didn't run into his arms. She didn't run to him at all. In fact, she stopped a good ten feet away, and still on the other side of the barrier that she could cross with such ease – and he could not cross at all.

"Draco," she said uncertainly, "what are – "

"Hermione." He fought to keep his voice steady; to keep the desperation out of it. He couldn't get to her and she had stopped short of coming to him, and he knew the reason for that, it was as plain as day. She hadn't run to him because of the way he'd been acting toward her lately – he'd been treating her appallingly, dear God, the last time they'd spoken he'd actually threatened her with _divorce_ – and now, in hindsight, he saw, he really realized, that that had all been Luke's doing as well.

All of this – _all_ of it, right down to the emotional wedge that had been driven between him and his wife – had been engineered by his brother.

_ALL_ of it. And he had fallen for it hook, line and sinker.

He was absolutely sick with it. Sick with _himself_.

If a bigger sucker than he had ever existed anywhere, Draco didn't know about it.

"Hermione," he said again, in a voice of forced calm that was noticeably frayed around the edges, "sweetheart, come here. Please? We're going to figure this out together, only I need you to come here, Hermione."

She looked at him as though he'd just grown another head. And Merlin, did _she_ look awful, he noticed; God, when had she gotten so _thin?_ How had he not noticed it before? She was positively haggard… her face ghost-pale, her eyes huge and black and haunted, adding to the spectral look. She'd clamped one arm protectively across her stomach, as if, he thought, it might have been hurting her. And yet, somehow none of this made her look older, as one might have assumed; to the contrary, she looked almost dead-on like her teenaged self again, back when he'd been trying to help her pick up the pieces of a shattered life; heart-wrenchingly vulnerable and wounded to the core.

_And I did this. Luke might have plotted it and even set it in motion, but I'm the one who did it. Only me_.

"Draco, I have to go home," she said. She turned and looked, again, over her shoulder toward the house. "The children are – "

He swallowed thickly. How did he fix this? How did he reach her, across this gulf that he had created?

"Hermione," he tried again, panic now rising in his throat like bile, "I'm going to take care of this. I'm going to get them back. I promise you, Bookworm, I promise. But I need… for you… to come to me, Hermione. I'm _begging_ you. Sweetheart, please."

He reached out then and placed his hand flat against the barrier, fingers splayed, silently willing, willing, _willing_ her to approach, to reach for his hand even if she weren't ready to hurl herself into his arms, to reach out for him so that he could grab her and pull her through to safety whether she liked it or not.

He was powerfully reminded of that gut-churningly awful night during seventh year at Hogwarts when he'd been forced to watch helplessly from behind a barrier of magic not too different from this one, as his father had abducted Hermione before his very eyes. _God, whatever made me think I could escape my family, my history? That I could lead a normal, happy life? This has all been borrowed time, from that night to this one; _all_ of it._ Now, as then, he had the deep, instinctual sense that her very life depended on his ability to reach her somehow. _If she turns away from me, if she goes in there without me, I will never see her alive again._

Hermione's eyes, meanwhile, had widened marginally at the sight of Draco's hand, pressed to the air some six feet in front of her, as if it were pressed against something solid. Her brows knit as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Her reactions were delayed, Draco saw; her reasoning not quite clear. Whatever sedative Harry had given her was still working its way through her system, for all that she was trying her damnedest to fight it off. She wouldn't last a second against Luke, not in this state.

"Draco," she said, her voice little more than whisper, really, and he felt as if he were falling into her eyes, they were that huge – and hurt – and lost – "do you remember when Ronnelle was six years old, when she was attending that Muggle primary school, and the teacher assigned her to draw a picture of her family, and she drew us all on broomsticks, playing Quidditch, even though I've never played, ever in my life? We got an earful from _that_ teacher come conference-time; Murphy, I think her name was, Mrs. Murphy; do you remember?"

"Yes, Bookworm," he practically sobbed, "I remember."

_Ronnelle, oh God Ronnelle, how am I going to get to you? And how am I going to reach Hermione so that you'll still have a mother when all this is said and done?_

"So," she said, speaking slowly, _strangely_; almost as if in a trance, "I have to go. Ronnelle is in there… Seth too… and so I have to go."

She turned away from him, back toward the house, and he knew in that instant that he had lost.

"_HERMIONE!_" He hurled himself against the barrier then, pounding it, kicking it, screaming her name over and over and over again, until his knuckles were split; until Snape and Harry pulled him away. She didn't look back until she was standing just outside the door. Then she paused and looked back, locking eyes with him one more time across the distance.

Draco wrenched himself away from the hands that were holding him and ran once more to the edge of the wards, pressing both of his bloodied hands, now, helplessly against the barrier's smooth, invisible, and utterly implacable surface. "HERMIONE! Hermione, _NO!_ _Please_ don't – I love you! I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry, love, please! Please DON'T!"

She hesitated for just a heartbeat or two – just long enough to allow him to begin to hope again – and then she turned away. And went into the house.

Draco fell to his knees; a deep, hopeless grief crashing over him, drowning out everything, even his fury toward Luke. He didn't think he'd ever be able to drag himself to his feet again. Lost, they were _all_ lost to him. Luke had won.

It was over.

And then, in a flash of bluish light, Seth appeared.


	17. Fury

"Seth!"

He appeared sprawled on the grass right at Matt's feet and Matt was, predictably, the first to react; perhaps because out of all those present, he was the only one with any clue as to _how_ this had just happened – or perhaps merely due to simple, sheer proximity. Whatever the reason, he was down beside the younger boy in a flash; gripping Seth by the shoulders, pulling him into a sitting position, all the while shouting frantically, "Seth! Where's Ronnelle!? Is she okay, where is she, Seth? _Where is she?!_"

Seth, for his part, appeared equally desperate to answer, but found his attempts to do so repeatedly thwarted. He tried to speak; no sound would come. He tried to gesture; his hands were still bound behind his back. Fortunately, Matt cottoned on to what was happening. "Dad!" he shouted, as Harry, Snape and Draco converged upon the two boys, "something's wrong! I think he's been _Silencio'd_ or something…"

Snape was quickest on the draw. "_Finite Incantatum_," he snapped, breaking the hold of both the _Silencio_ and then _Incarcerous_ spells at once as Draco engulfed his son in a crushing, almost punishing embrace. It took everyone present a couple of moments to realize that Seth was struggling fiercely against his father, and also that he was shouting.

He was, in point of fact, absolutely _furious_.

" – _tricked_ me!" He was yelling, face flushed and twisted with anger. "She bloody well tricked me and she _knew_ what she was doing! She _knew_ the ring wouldn't take us both, that's why she made me put it on in the first place, and I was dumb enough to listen to her! She knew all along and I _hate_ her! I hate her, I _HATE_ her!"

"Seth. Seth!" This was Snape, asking the questions that Draco himself was too overcome to ask. "Seth, where's Ronnelle? Where's your sister? Is she in the house? Were you just with her? Was she all right?"

"_NO_ she's not bloody all right!" Seth shouted. "She's still _IN_ there, isn't she! How can she be all right!? She _knew_ the ring wouldn't take us both but she told me that it would! That as long as she held onto me, it _would!_ She's a dirty liar! I hate her and… why did she _do_ that!? Why did she _DO it?!_"

"Seth. You have to tell us. What happened in there? What ring? What. Did. She. Do?"

Seth's voice was a bare, desolate whisper. "She had a charmed ring that Matt gave her because she'd been having bad dreams. It was supposed to get her out of danger. But she put it on me. She said that as long as she held onto me, it would take us both to safety. I was stupid enough to _believe_ her! Then right after she gave me ring, Luke came." At this point Seth had managed to wrench himself away from Draco, and he dropped his face into his hands so that his next words were muffled; barely understandable.

"Luke… dad, he… he made her sick… he made her… duh-_do_ things… until she threw up!"

A look like lightning flew between Harry, Matt and Snape at this; not Draco, though. Draco's gray eyes were pressed shut and it almost appeared as though he were about to throw up himself.

He was ashen. And he had to swallow hard before he could force himself to ask, in a deceptively quiet, almost calm tone of voice – the kind of voice he used when he was getting ready to fly _completely_ off the handle, just go absolutely berserk –

"Seth? What did Luke make your sister do?"

Seth looked up just as Draco opened his eyes. The father's pale eyes locked on the son's, which were dark and streaming tears. It was Seth's turn to swallow now; gulping back a sob before he was able to make the words come. Once he got started, though, he seemed equally unable to stop. The words poured out fast and faster, his voice rising toward hysterics.

"Luke told her he would hurt _me_ if she didn't do what he wanted. I tried to tell her not to do it, but she didn't listen to me! She… he… he made her… _do_ things with him! He made her take off her _clothes!_ I _told_ her not to and she didn't listen! She lied and she tricked me and she… she… I _hate_ her and dad… we have to help her! When he comes back and I'm gone, he's gonna kill her! That ring was meant for _her_, but she got _me_ out and she stayed behind and he's gonna kill her and it's _all – my – FAULT!_"

Draco's eyes had actually glazed over by the end of this; he had taken on the distant, thousand-yard stare of a man who no longer quite fully inhabits his own body.

"Okay," he said softly, and that was all. He turned his head very slowly, dreamlike, to stare up at the house with empty, burning eyes. "Okay," he murmured again, unfolding himself from the ground as he spoke, getting to his feet now with his eyes still riveted on the house, his hands beginning to clench and unclench, over and over again, spasmodically; unconsciously.

He had honestly never looked more terrifying in his life than he did at that moment, wearing that strange, blank, far-off stare.

And that was _before_ he started to… for lack of a better word… _crackle_.

It was a rush of energy like a light wind; it rippled through his silver-white hair and then swirled away – everyone else nearby felt it as well, like a warm breeze before it dissipated into the night.

That was when Draco began to crackle, as if with some weird, inborn source of electricity; tiny bursts of bluish light like sparks flickering in his pale hair, snapping between his fingertips. A bare moment later, his entire body was encased in a faintly iridescent, silver-blue corona of light.

Matt, meanwhile, had thrown himself at the barrier following Seth's words, attacking it in a frenzy of impotent rage, much as Draco himself had been doing in the moments before Seth had appeared. Now Snape approached him and, clasping his shoulder, yanked him back, away from the wards.

"Matthew," he said with quiet forcefulness – the tone of voice which had proven most successful time and again in cutting through the babble of a classroom filled with agitated Gryffindors – or in this case, the unbridled fury of just one.

"Matthew," he said again when the boy simply tried to wrench himself away; everyone _else_ might call him Matt but Severus Snape had never held with nicknames. "I suggest you calm down for a moment and take a good look at Draco right now… and then re-evaluate how close you want to be standing to those wards."

Breathing hard, fists still clenched, Matt looked past his professor, his eyes settling on Draco… and widening. "Is that – " his voice was little more than an awed whisper – "Is… his magic all right, then? After all?"

"I really don't know," Snape said slowly, "because I'm fairly certain that what we are seeing isn't actually _Draco's_ magic at all. This is… something else."

"Then what?" asked Harry, joining them. He looked almost angry enough to explode himself, but was clearly holding himself in check until he better understood what was going on with Draco at the moment.

"Something old. Unless I'm much mistaken, I think we're witnessing some of the oldest, most fundamental magic there is. Familial protective magic, not unlike that which was invoked when your mother gave her life for _you_. It exists independent of any particular witch or wizard and can be called upon in times of dire need, usually unconsciously. There have even been rare instances of Muggle parents managing, through sheer force of desperation, to access this sort of magic. If a Muggle child is pinned beneath a large object, for instance, and the parent finds him or herself suddenly able to lift it, even if it would ordinarily be far too heavy. They explain it away, of course, as a rush of adrenaline or some such thing, but really it's… it's _this_."

Harry's green eyes widened marginally as he processed this information… then narrowed. "So can it get us in?"

"I don't know," Snape said, as the three of them stood watching Draco. Still moving as if in a trance, he approached the wards once more, and reaching out, placed both hands flat against Luke's barrier. Immediately, the magic that had been building around him in the form of white-blue light _burst_ from his fingertips, jagged and splintered as lightning, shooting out in ten different directions and racing away across the surface of the barrier, skittering over it until the entire vast dome-shaped thing, hitherto invisible, could easily be made out – because it was now completely encompassed by a web of fine, yet blazingly bright, cracks.

Snape crossed his arms over his black-clad chest. "I'm hoping so… at least enough that I think it would be wise to stand away from those wards. But I just don't know."

Draco, jaw clenched so tightly that it seemed his teeth must crack under the pressure at any moment, dragged in a deep, shuddering breath, clenched his eyes shut, and exhaled explosively through his nose.

The web of cracks which now spanned the entirety of Luke's barrier began to _pulse_ with light.

Seth meanwhile, behind them, staggered to his feet… and then quietly passed out.

OOOOO

The despair that engulfed Ronnelle when Seth vanished, leaving her alone in her parents'-bedroom-turned-torture-chamber, was like water closing over her head. She felt as if she were drowning in it. All along, from the very beginning of this ordeal, she had been telling herself that there was no guarantee the ring would take them both; that in fact it was far more likely it would only transport the wearer. When you thought about it, after all, it only made sense. The ring was meant to be activated in circumstances of extreme peril, and in such circumstances, it was quite possible – even likely – that the person in closest proximity to the wearer, or even holding _onto_ the wearer, as she'd been holding onto Seth, was in fact the _source_ of the danger.

Supposing Seth had not been present tonight at all; that _she'd_ been wearing the ring and had activated it as soon as Luke had grabbed hold of her. Would she have wanted it to transport _Luke_ right along with her? Of course not.

So it made perfect sense that she'd been left behind. But… but… _still_. Even though she had tried to prepare herself for this eventuality, the stark realityof being… _forsaken_ this way… was horrific beyond anything she could have braced herself against; almost beyond comprehension.

Seth was safe and she was deeply and profoundly and eternally grateful for that. But for her, it was over. When Luke came back and found Seth gone, when he realized that she'd gotten her brother out of the house, out of his grasp, to safety – he was going to kill her.

In fact, she would be lucky if that was _all_ he did. The best thing she could pray for now was a quick death. Was that he would be so completely overcome with fury at the realization that Seth could no longer be harmed – or used as a pawn to force Ronnelle's cooperation – that he'd forget about raping her, forget about Crucio-ing her, and simply _Avada_ her on the spot.

That was the _best _possible outcome she had to look forward to.

And even with this knowledge sitting like a dull, heavy, suffocating weight in her chest, she could not summon up any more tears. She hadn't shed a tear since before Luke had made her… made her… _Oh God, that __**taste**__; she would have gladly drunk acid if she'd thought it would scour that taste from her mouth. _

No, she was cried out.

She was exhausted as well. Realizing her intent, Seth had fought her like a wild thing when she'd approached him to activate the ring. It had worked out to her advantage that his hands had been restrained; otherwise she was not at all sure she would have prevailed. Now it took the last of her strength to try her luck with the large picture window, even though she fully expected it to be warded against her escape, and of course, it was.

Then, sagging to the floor, she curled into as tight a ball as she could manage at the foot of her parents' bed, and waited, dry-eyed, to die.

OOOOO

Hermione's faculties may have been somewhat addled, but Draco had underestimated her; she was still Hermione. Draco had thought she'd only last a second against his brother, but no – she lasted a whole minute, at least. She entered the house with all due stealth just as, in the master bedroom at the far end of the long central hallway, Ronnelle wrestled Seth into submission and finally managed to send him, willing or _not_, to safety.

It was the caution she exhibited that saved Hermione from being dispatched immediately; Luke and Narcissa had been alerted to her approach as soon as she'd crossed through the wards, and were lying in wait for her – that was the reason Luke had so abruptly left Seth and Ronnelle alone in the first place.

But Hermione came in low and fast, crouched down with her wand at the ready; and the first barrage of curses flew harmlessly over her head, alerting her instantly to the position of her attackers. This allowed her to fire off a couple of spells of her own; even managing to hit Narcissa with an Impediment Jinx before Luke, enraged, got the best of her with a well-aimed _Stupefy_.

The entire exchange lasted only a couple of moments, but those couple of moments were precious in that, even though she had no idea at the time, they bought the safety of at least one of Hermione's children.

And for that she would gladly have suffered far worse than a simple _Stupefy_.

Of course, it weren't as if her attackers intended to _stop_ with that.

After releasing his mother from the jinx and ascertaining that she was unharmed, Luke crossed the room to where Hermione had collapsed face-down and used his foot to nudge her over onto her back.

"That's the mudblood, all right," Narcissa remarked, almost conversationally, from beside him. She was staring hard at Hermione's still face, half obscured by a tumult of dark curls. "The disgusting little… (she seemed to be casting about for a strong enough word)… _creature_ that destroyed our family. I'd almost forgotten how _plain_ she was. To think any child of mine could be led astray by… by _this_. Your brother must be blind."

Luke was looking down at Hermione as well, but his gaze was distracted and uninterested. He'd seen plenty of her over the past several weeks; staring at her unconscious form held no fascination for him, as it apparently did for his mother.

He had other things on his mind. Unfinished business in another part of the house, to be precise.

Narcissa, sensing his mood, dismissed him. "I think I can handle the mudblood from here on, darling. Why don't you return to… ah… _supervising_ the brats. I don't trust them on their own, not as far I could throw them. That older one especially strikes me as a conniving little thing."

Luke gave a disdainful snort. "They're not up to anything, mother. I have that room warded from here to Kingdom Come. You're right that Ronnelle is… an exceptionally quick study… (this he said with a lewdly satisfied smirk that Narcissa only pretended not to notice)… but I assure you that they're perfectly safe. On the other hand, though –" he shot one last look down at Hermione's still form – "I may as well get back. I hadn't quite finished subduing them yet."

"No, I imagine you hadn't," Narcissa replied blandly. "Well trot along then, dear. Myself, I have some catching up to do with my daughter-in-law."

OOOOO

She stood there looking down at Hermione for a long time after Luke had left. Something had struck her odd about the way – the _position _– in which Hermione was lying. Narcissa may have been evil as the day was long, but she was also an inarguably intelligent and perceptive woman. She had her own strong brand of women's intuition as well. And she was a mother. So as she stared down at her daughter-in-law (even _thinking_ those words felt dirty to Narcissa) and the way in which her arms were protectively cradling her stomach – it had to have been the last conscious act she had made as the curse hit her, and even Luke's kicking her over onto her back hadn't dislodged them – she was relatively sure of what she was seeing.

It was a mother's protectiveness she was looking at.

An _expectant_ mother's protectiveness.

And was that just the barest beginning of a little bump, there, as well?

A quick spell – the same one Ginny had performed a while back – confirmed it.

"Hm." The blonde woman's lips wrenched violently downward. So the mudblood was pregnant, _again_. Another filthy, half-breed brat on the way. There appeared to be no _end_ to the amount of insult she and Draco were willing to heap upon the Malfoy name.

Well, Narcissa would see about that. Oh, yes.

She _Accio_'d Hermione's wand from where it had fallen and slipped it into her pocket; it would do nicely as a trophy of this night. Then she snapped "_Incarcerous_," followed a second later by, "_Ennervate_."

OOOOO

Hermione blinked hard once; then again, trying to bring her eyes back into focus. Someone was standing over her, but her vision was severely blurred. She was groggy and her head was pounding; for a moment she couldn't even place where she was or what had happened.

Then it all came back to her.

She gave a harsh gasp and tried to sit up; she failed spectacularly. That was when she realized that she'd been bound.

She started to struggle; then thought better of it. Wiser to save her strength if she could.

The figure above her stooped, and with a sick swoop of her stomach she recognized Narcissa.

"I knew you weren't dead," she croaked. "I knew it the minute I saw Luke."

"Overall, not the politest of greetings," Narcissa said demurely, "but then again, it's about what I would expect from a mudblood. Here… allow me to educate you in the fine art of small talk. I'll ask a question which you will answer – and then you may reciprocate, if you wish. We'll teach you some manners yet. So, dear," she continued mildly, "when are you due?"

"Due…?" Hermione echoed faintly, her mind in a fog. The aftereffects of the Stupefaction curse, combined with the sedative that was still working through her system, were shutting her down.

It was proving to be a struggle just to hold onto consciousness. She could barely follow what the blonde woman was _saying_ to her, let alone give any sort of meaning to the words.

"Yes, you mudblood idiot, _due!_" Narcissa snapped impatiently, her false calm of a moment ago whisked aside as quickly and completely as a child's Halloween mask. "Honestly, _why_ do I keep hearing that you're meant to be so _bright!?_ It's a simple word; only three letters in it. _When – is – your – baby – __**due?**_"

_Then _Hermione understood. Her eyes widened. "No," she whispered sickly. How did this horrible woman _know?_

"Oh, no."

"Oh yes," Narcissa replied grimly, her lips now pressed into a thin line. "I'm a mother too, remember? I can recognize the signs and symptoms. So I'll ask you one time more. When is my newest – _grandchild_ – (she fairly spat the word) – due?"

"I don't… I…"

"Wrong answer, mudblood," the blonde snarled. "You've exhausted my patience. _Crucio!_"

OOOOO

Hermione was unprepared for the pain. She'd felt it before, of course, and had never forgotten it – _no one_ who experienced the Cruciatus Curse ever forgot it – but the years that had passed between her last experience with it, and this, had… taken the edge off the memory.

The intensity of it defied description. She was… _wild _with pain. Insane with it. It seemed to last forever and then beyond forever and when Narcissa finally called it off, leaving Hermione gasping on the floor, wracked with shudders, her heart racing, she could really, honestly, barely recall a time _before_ that pain.

Narcissa folded herself daintily into a kneeling position beside her captive and then, with a perverse gentleness, stroked Hermione's hair back out of her face.

"You know, mudblood, your inability to furnish a due date for your own child hardly argues for your fitness as a parent. But fear not, I'm here to help. I'll give you a new one, how about that? As of this moment, let's say your baby is due… _never_."

And actually placing the tip of her wand low on Hermione's stomach she murmured "_Crucio_" again.

Hermione arched up off the floor with a raw, sobbing cry. The pain was bad, but the knowledge that this time Narcissa was _actually targeting her unborn child_ was infinitely worse.

When Narcissa released her from the curse this time the room was bucking and heaving, and she'd progressed from the shudders of a moment ago to a queer and alarming state of numbness.

But she was angry now. And that anger was cutting through the fog in her head like the light of a righteous sun.

She was weak… she was bound… but was madder than she'd ever been in her life, and she was thinking clearly again. She'd lost her wand, but that was all right; she had one more trick up her sleeve – or in her pocket, as the case may be. And even though her hands _were _bound, they were bound in front of her, giving her at least a limited range of motion. So if she was very, very careful – and very, very lucky – then maybe, just maybe…

She had to act quickly, though. Narcissa was tiring of her cruel little game. "Well, mudblood," she sneered, "anything you'd like to say to me before I send you and your youngest brat off to join the other two? I imagine Luke has successfully… dispatched… _them_ by now."

Those words hurt Hermione in a way that even an Unforgivable Curse could not touch – twisting her heart into a cold, wounded little knot within her – but they did not rob her of her focus or resolve. To the contrary, they strengthened it.

"Only that I know something you don't," she rasped out.

This of course had exactly the effect on Narcissa that she'd hoped it would; it infuriated the older woman – and intrigued her.

"And what, mudblood, would that be?" her tormenter inquired.

Hermione, having baited the hook, now allowed her eyes to flutter and begin rolling back, feigning a descent into unconsciousness. Just as she had hoped, Narcissa was not about to let her have the last word like that.

She bent so close over Hermione that her pale gold hair fell down in a curtain around them both. Grabbed Hermione by a handful of her _own_ hair. And snarled, "tell me what you know, you filthy mudblood _bitch_."

Hermione's eyes snapped back open. They were clear, and they were _blazing_. "I know that Muggle weapons kill every bit as efficiently as wands," she grated out, and with a single mighty upward surge she drove the Potters' favorite kitchen knife, which she'd fumbled both-handed from the pocket of her robe as Narcissa had leaned over her, up to its hilt in the older woman's chest.

Narcissa's ice-blue eyes flew wide and she lurched backward with a strangled scream – but the damage was done. Her hand was still clenched in Hermione's hair, and she brought the younger woman up with her so that in the next instant it was _Narcissa_ who was lying on her back on the floor, with Hermione now sprawled halfway on top of her, the two of them still face to face.

Narcissa's mouth was working, trying to make words come, but none would. That single choked cry was destined to be the last sound she ever made. Her hand, the one not tangled in Hermione's hair, still clutched her wand, but she no longer possessed the wherewithal to use it.

Hermione, on the other hand, was once again in perfect control of her faculties. Her bound hands found the hilt of the knife still protruding from Narcissa's chest… grabbed it – it was slippery now, with the older woman's blood – and twisted.

Narcissa's body heaved. Her eyes went, if possible, even wider. A gout of blood erupted from her mouth. And then, as Hermione held on grimly, she jerked once – twice – and was still.


	18. Inferno

(A/N: A shorter chapter than the last couple, but eventful. Some graphic violence and disturbing stuff ahead.)

OOOOO

Ronnelle didn't have long to wait… nor had she misjudged the violence of Luke's reaction when he realized that Seth wasn't just hiding (the first thing he did was to check the wardrobe and then the en-suite bathroom) but was really and truly and actually _gone_, and that there was not a single bloody thing he could do about it.

He was absolutely _livid_ with rage.

"Ronnelle." Like Draco, when he was angry – really, really angry – his voice, rather than rising, became quiet; almost gentle. And as with Draco, the quieter it got, the more truly terrifying it became.

Ronnelle neither moved nor looked up at the sound of her name. She simply squeezed her eyes shut and tried to brace herself for death.

But Luke had other ideas.

Despite what Ronnelle had hoped, he was not to be riled into giving her an easy end. _Oh_, no – such was not Luke's nature. Those who crossed him – especially those who knowingly and _deliberately_ crossed him, as Ronnelle had dared do – had to be made to suffer.

In fucking _spades_.

"Oh, Ronnelle," he said softly, "you poor little girl. You're in trouble now." Grasping her by the arm hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises on her skin, he hauled her to her feet once more, then forced her chin up, compelling her to meet his cold gray gaze.

She said nothing.

Luke sighed. "Ronnelle," he continued in that same quiet voice, "you've been rather naughty while I was out of the room, haven't you? And I imagine you understand that there's nothing that can save you now; you're a realist, and I respect that. So I'll offer you a deal; you be a good girl _now_ and tell me where your brother is and how I can recover him, and I won't make you suffer any more than I had originally planned. What do you say, hm?"

Ronnelle's eyes were glassy and distant; empty. When she spoke he actually had to lean down a little, and strain to hear her. But though there was no defiance left in her eyes, her words were a different story.

"Seth is safe and you will _never_ get him back. You will never hurt him again, and you will no longer use him to control _me_. And I know there's nothing that can save me now, therefore I see no reason to continue cooperating with you. So here – this is for making Seth watch that, you perverted _bastard!_"

And, taking advantage of the fact that they were standing nearly as close to one another as a pair of lovers embracing, she kneed him in the groin with all the strength she had left.

It was difficult to say what struck Luke harder; the pain, or the sheer enormous _shock_ of her action. As he fell to the floor, though, Ronnelle made a dash for the door – and very nearly made it, too.

Nearly, but not quite.

"_Crucio!_" He was barely able to wheeze out the word, and the spell was weaker than it would have ordinarily been, but it was enough to put a halt to her desperate bid for freedom.

She slammed to the floor, convulsing with pain, as Luke dragged himself up. The next thing she felt was his booted foot connecting with her stomach, and then with her ribs.

Again – and again – and again.

At first she barely registered the kicks; it was just a different sort of pain from the Cruciatus. No worse – in fact, if anything, perhaps a little better. It wasn't until the third kick that he really… damaged her.

That was the one that broke her rib – or ribs? – with an audible _crack_, filling her chest with a pain like fire.

Then he was dragging her up again, by the _throat_ this time, and throwing her face-down onto the bed. Her head hit the wooden headboard hard enough to cause her to black out, but only for a second. She was aware again… marginally, at least… by the time he managed to straddle her, snarling like a demon now, fisting one hand in her hair and shoving her face hard into the mattress, suffocating her; the other hand ripping aside her pink robe, shoving open her thighs.

Against all odds, she started to struggle again, frantically, trying to close her legs, trying to squirm away, trying at the very least to raise her head and _breathe_ through the agony in her chest – but Luke was having none of it. Rapping out an incantation, he bound her arms to the bed. No longer having to worry about holding her down by force, he removed the hand that had been clenched in her hair, but any relief _that_ gave her was short lived. He steadied her hips with one hand, holding her hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises on her skin, and with the other… oh _God_, with the other… he didn't bother removing her knickers, just shoved them aside, and an instant later he'd driven two fingers into her, knuckle-deep, where nothing had _ever_ been before.

It was a pain like she'd never imagined. Lights burst in front of her eyes. A shriek was ripped out of her that was equal parts anguish and horror.

She would have been hyperventilating by now, but the reality was that she couldn't, she _really couldn't_ breathe. Even though he was no longer pressing her into the mattress, any attempt at more than just the shallowest token breath led to unendurable pain in her chest.

She was dying.

And the last thing she'd ever feel in her life would be her virginity torn away from her by her own uncle. In that moment, as she slid away toward darkness, she found that she was actually _glad_ that the end had come at last.

And then, from far away, or at least so it seemed to Ronnelle, the woman – the awful, evil woman – screamed.

And _then_ the world exploded.

OOOOO

Breathing hard, Hermione watched the light leave Narcissa's eyes. Then, finally releasing her grip on the knife handle, she Accio'd her own wand from the dead woman's pocket, and used it to free her hands from their magical bonds. She then went to work freeing her hair from Narcissa's hand, which still clutched a large fistful of it in what was now, quite literally, a death grip.

It wasn't until she noticed the tears splashing down on the dead woman's face and into her open, glazed eyes that Hermione realized she was crying. And it wasn't until that realization struck her that the actual sobs came.

A moment later she was sobbing so hard she could scarcely breathe, even as she finally managed to yank herself free of the corpse and stagger to her feet. Her legs didn't want to support her. She sagged against the wall, staring down in shock and horror at the bloodied body of her mother-in-law as tears continued to flow freely down her face.

She raised a shaking hand to swipe the tears away, and realized that _she_ was covered with blood as well; her hands were coated in it, her bathrobe tacky with it.

Tacky and _warm_.

A nauseating wave of revulsion swept over her. She shrugged out of the robe, allowing it "flump" heavily – _wetly_ – to the floor.

Her nightshirt beneath was liberally stained with red too… but nowhere near the extent of the discarded robe. She wiped her hands on the nightshirt, then pushed her hair back out of her eyes, leaving a last couple of blood smears at her temples. Then, still clutching her wand, she turned down the hall; set on finding Luke, and her children.

At that point, two things happened at once.

The first was external; some sort of vast explosion somewhere overhead which rocked the house right down to its foundation. Hermione was thrown across the hallway; slammed into the wall opposite the one she'd been using for support just a second ago, knocking loose a whole series of framed photographs; herself and Draco in Hogwarts robes, their wedding portrait, the children when they were small.

The second was internal, and in a way it resembled an explosion too. Just as she impacted the wall a bright, sharp, white-hot pain, staggering in its intensity, went ripping through her midsection, shooting downward; burning and slicing her in a way that even Narcissa's Cruciatus Curse had not.

She fell, hard, to her hands and knees, wanting – needing – to scream scream _scream_ from this horrific new pain… but the only sound that came was a sick little exhalation and a wounded "ah… _AHH!_"

And then it hit her again.

She doubled over so hard that now she slammed her head against the floor, her arms flying to wrap tightly, low around her stomach. Her wand clattered, forgotten, to the floor. The pain was horrendous, but the sudden _understanding_ that flared within her as she realized what must be happening – that was even worse.

_No no no please no please no don't let this be what I think it_ – "Augh!!"

The third time the pain ripped through her was when she knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Narcissa had won. She had killed her but Narcissa had won just the same.

She was losing her baby.

And that was how Luke found her a moment later as he came barreling down the hallway, having left Ronnelle secured to the bed – half-naked, half-conscious and struggling to breathe – in order to see what the hell it was that had made his mother scream like that.

As for the other thing – he _knew_ what that had been, _and_ what it meant; to wit, that he was running out of time.

Still, he skidded to a halt at the sight of Hermione crumpled on the hallway floor, folded in half with her arms cinched around herself, covered in blood.

Covered in blood.

_But whose?_

"_MOTHER!?_" There was no answer. He sprinted the rest of the way down the hall and into the living room, leaving Hermione where she was; it didn't look as if she was likely to go anywhere under her own power, after all.

His worst fears were confirmed a second later as he stared in shock at Narcissa's body, the knife still protruding from her chest. How… in Merlin's _name_… had this happened? How, _how_ had things gone so wrong, so quickly? Seth vanished, and now his mother… his _mother_…

He stood there for several heartbeats' worth of time, simply unable to wrench his eyes away from the carnage.

The mudblood had done this.

_That bitch_.

_That BITCH_.

"Oh, you fucking… little… whore…"

He reeled around, not pausing to so much as close Narcissa's empty, staring eyes. There would be time for that later. Right now he had more pressing business to attend to.

OOOOO

Hermione, pulling on reserves of strength lent by sheer desperation – she _had_ to find her children, get them out of here and then seek help for her baby, she _HAD_ to – had actually managed to regain her feet by the time Luke reached her. She was leaning heavily against the wall, catching her breath and so lost in a private world of pain and panic that she never even saw him coming.

She had no hope of defending herself as Luke drove a fist into her stomach with savage force. She doubled over with an anguished cry and would have hit the floor again had he not caught her by the hair and yanked her back up, only to backhand her across the face hard enough to split her lip open.

"Come on, mudblood," he spat out, starting to drag her down the hall. "You're going to watch me fuck your daughter's brains out, and then you're going to watch me kill her, all before you get to die. I'm going to have you _begging_ me to kill y – "

But then quite suddenly he stopped, cocking his head and listening hard. He had known that time was of the essence, but it seemed he had even less of it left than he realized. There were voices outside now, and they were a lot louder – a lot _closer_ – than they should have been.

Apparently he had already had all the fun with Ronnelle he was destined to.

Well, _that_ was disappointing.

Nevertheless, he needed a new plan of action, and fast.

The doorway closest to him led to Seth's room. Snarling, he hurled Hermione through it. She landed hard on her hands and knees, and immediately collapsed onto her side, curling into the tightest little ball she could manage, arms pressed hard across her midriff. It looked to Luke as if she were in the throes of one _bastard_ of a stomachache.

He must have punched her even harder than he'd thought.

Leveling his wand at her crumpled body, he drew in breath to _Avada_ the bitch – then stopped short.

The killing curse, in spite of its heinous reputation, actually provided its victims with an instant and painless death. It was an easy, merciful way to die. Whereas his mother's death had been neither quick _nor_ painless, not by a long shot. That gurgling scream he'd heard her utter; the expression of horror in her dead, staring eyes, the Muggle weapon sticking obscenely out of her body, the blood _everywhere_ – his mother had suffered.

And this little mudblood _cunt _deserved to suffer every bit as much.

No – scratch 'every bit as'. She deserved to suffer _more_.

Instead of Avada'ing her, he cast a modified version of the Impediment Jinx. It would weigh down her limbs, making them leaden; completely uncooperative. And since she was not exactly in prime condition to begin with, it more or less guaranteed that she would not be leaving her place on her son's bedroom floor.

Then, after crossing the room to grace her with a final, parting kick – this one to the head, rendering her a good deal less than half-conscious – he retreated to the living room where Narcissa's body lay. Standing over his dead mother, he leveled his wand at the draperies and barked, "_Incendio!_"

He then set fire to the sofa, the rug, and several other articles of furniture as well, in rapid succession. Only when he had the beginnings of a true inferno going did he gather Narcissa into his arms – and make for the back door at a run.

OOOOO

It had seemed to Ronnelle, hurt, disoriented, and in a state of _severe_ shock, that the world had exploded.

It wasn't the world that exploded, of course, but the wards.

Draco was thrown backward to land sprawled on the grass as Luke's barrier shattered in a brilliant blast of light and sound. Harry and Matt were running a bare second later, sprinting across the wide lawn toward the house; it was only Snape who troubled to glance in Draco's direction, hissing a sharp intake of breath between clenched teeth.

Draco looked… beyond awful.

Paleness was his normal state but now, as he struggled to sit up, he looked like a ghost; a corpse.

"Draco?" Snape offered him a hand and pulled him to his feet. "You all right?"

Draco managed to keep his feet for a second or two – then collapsed sideways into Snape, who promptly caught him beneath the arms, steadying him. The younger man's eyes, he saw, were clouded and distant; and beads of clammy sweat were standing out on his forehead. He was shaking, too – shaking so hard his teeth were rattling, as if with cold.

Nevertheless, "M'okay," he managed, even though it sounded as if the words were being wrenched from him by force.

Typical.

Against his better judgment, Snape loosened his grip – and Draco fell hard into a sitting position on the grass.

That was when he saw the inert form of his son, lying several feet away.

"Seth," he whispered hoarsely, and then, "_SETH!_" He was moving then, without conscious awareness of it, covering the distance in an instant, pulling his son into his arms.

"Seth… Seth… no, don't do this, don't _do_ this, Seth!" He was cradling and rocking and _shaking_ the child, more or less all at once.

"Seth, come _on_, kiddo – _Ennervate!_"

The spell jolted through Seth's body like electricity. His eyes flew open and locked on Draco's, confusion evident in their dark depths. "Dad," he croaked, "I'm thirsty. My head hurts. I had the most horrible dream."

And then, a second later, as he looked around himself, and a weary, miserable sort of comprehension dawned in his expression, "I want mum. I want to go _home_." He raised a shaking hand; rubbed the back of it across his eyes. Stopped when something caught his attention.

It was the ring. The one that Matt had given Ronnelle and that she had then cajoled Seth into wearing. The one that she'd activated, sending him to safety even as he'd fought like an animal to stay with her, his instincts – both as a Gryffindor and as her brother – screaming at him to _protect_ her somehow, even though he was only a child in _way_ over his depth, unable at that point even to protect himself.

His inability to do anything for her… and his fundamental knowledge that she was enduring the horrors she was enduring for _his sake_, turning all of that fierce protective love into anger; anger directed at her.

He removed it now; virtually _yanked_ it off, his young face twisting with fury and despair. "I don't want this," he said to Draco, thrusting it at him. "She's a damn liar. Dad, go _get_ her. Please."

Draco took the ring from him, slowly, looking at it like he'd never seen such a thing before in his life. Then his eyes widened; cleared.

"Ronnelle," he breathed, jammed the ring onto his own finger – his pinky, the only one it would fit – and shot back to his feet, pulling Seth up with him.

The energy he'd expended crashing the wards had dazed him, and the sight of Seth unconscious had temporarily stolen every other thought – every other priority – from his mind. Now... he was still as pale as death, but now he had his focus back.

"Are you all right?" he asked Seth, who'd swayed on his feet, again, the instant Draco had withdrawn his support. He looked hard at his son. "_Really_ all right? _Seth?_"

Seth looked back at him with haunted eyes that were slowly leaking tears, and nodded. "Yeah. I'm just so _tired_, dad."

Draco pulled him in for one more brief, hard hug. "Just hold on, kiddo, I'm gonna end this. Stay down here, okay? There may be… some fireworks before this is through."

He was just releasing Seth and catching Snape's eye – a quick, powerful glance that said, more or less, _let's get it ON_ – when the cacophony of shouts began from up toward the house.

Harry and Matt had, of course, gotten a sizeable head start on Draco and Snape, and it was _their_ voices that were now yelling out in furious frustration… and helpless horror.

Draco felt his stomach go into a cold, sick sort of freefall, even before he turned his head – very slowly, it seemed; in that instant it was as if the whole world had slowed down – to look toward his house.

The house his wife and daughter were still inside.

The whole thing was ablaze.


	19. Frantic

Ronnelle was fighting her way back to something approaching full awareness.

She'd managed to turn onto her side, and that made breathing a little easier. She then tried, instinctively, to curl into a ball – bad idea. _That_ increased the pain in her chest a great deal. She relaxed again.

Well, _relax_ is a relative term. Her whole body was trembling, from head to foot, and hard. Luke hadn't managed to violate her – not with anything other than his hand, at any rate – the horrible woman's scream, followed by the massive explosion that Ronnelle still couldn't comprehend, had sent him running from the room and he hadn't been back. Even so, he had hurt her _enough_; and she was still shaking with reaction, not to mention the blazing pain in her ribcage.

She still couldn't get in more that the shallowest token breath, but maybe, she thought, struggling to retain her tenuous hold on consciousness, maybe that wasn't an entirely bad thing.

Something seemed to be… _happening_ to the air in here. It was changing.

And not a good change.

It seemed to be getting thicker somehow; almost viscous. And darker. It might just have been all the trauma she'd experienced; it might have been the blow to her head when she'd fallen on the bed, impacting the headboard on the way down. Her head was throbbing dully now, sickly; and her vision – something was definitely going on _there_.

The room seemed to be… _shimmering_ in and out of focus before her eyes, both more and less vivid, somehow, than it should have been. She raised her head to try to get a better look, a better understanding of what was going on – but that turned out to be a mistake. The dull throbbing peaked into a screaming crescendo of pain so quickly and completely that it brought fresh tears to her eyes… and she hadn't thought she'd had any tears left.

She dropped her head quickly back onto the mattress and that was when she began to feel consciousness swirling away from her, like water down a bathtub drain…

And that was when she felt the embrace.

It wasn't _exactly_ an embrace, not in a physical sense, but that was the best analogy that her severely muddled mind could come up with at the time. Really, it was more of an… enveloping. Something settled around her, something that felt like strong, warm arms; the weight of a body pressing over her. Not terrifying as Luke's had been, but… _comforting_ and almost familiar somehow. Not restraining her, but rather protecting her.

And there was a voice that came along with this presence – faint, but discernable. It was like no other voice she'd ever heard; it was almost as if she were picking up a radio signal somehow. A very faint and distant signal on the wizarding wireless. It was fading in and out, but she couldn't tell whether that was actually a quality of the voice itself, or of her own wounded, semiconscious state.

She dared not lift her head again to try to hear more clearly, but she pressed her eyes closed and concentrated hard.

…_floor. Ronnelle, you have to get onto the floor. There's enough give in your bonds to allow it. Get off the bed, Ronnelle. You have to get on the floor…_

She didn't question it, and that was an indication of just how compromised she _was_ at the moment. Ordinarily Ronnelle questioned _everything_; it was her nature. Not just now, though. She began to edge, very slowly and carefully, off the side of the bed as over her head, the room continued filling with smoke.

OOOOO

Seth's room, where Hermione lay, was closer to the heart of the house than the master bedroom and therefore filled with even thicker smoke. The flames had not yet reached this far down the hallway, let alone further to where Ronnelle was, but they were coming.

For Hermione there was nothing anymore but pain, and heat, and darkness, and air that scratched her like steel wool when she tried to breathe it. Her limbs were wooden and refused to obey her; her mind was woozy and disoriented from the kick to her head. And her stomach… these wrenching, ripping, shooting pains… oh God, the baby.

_The baby_.

Fresh tears sprang to her eyes and they burned her. Her lungs were burning too. She tried to curl in on herself a little more; tried to offer her unborn child just that meager bit of protection, but she couldn't manage even that. The paroxysm of pain that just the _effort_ caused her was incredible. It sent her into a coughing fit that, once started, she couldn't stop.

She couldn't _breathe_ this air. It was as thick and viscous as syrup; she might as well have been trying to breathe molasses. _Boiling_ molasses. What… what had… Luke done… to the _air?_ And were Seth and Ronnelle trapped nearby, and struggling to breathe as well?

She was coughing so hard now that bursts of light were blooming before her eyes; her whole body convulsing with the force of it; the pain in her head, in her stomach, in every part of her nearly beyond her ability to endure.

And the coughing wouldn't cease, because she couldn't get any clean air into her lungs. This was it. She was shutting down.

Finally, _finally_, the coughing slowed… but that was because her attempts to breathe were beginning to falter. More and more time was passing between each breath she tried to drag in. She had been fighting to keep her eyes open, but she gave up on that, now, as well; they fluttered and began to roll back just as she'd allowed them to do earlier – it felt like a lifetime ago – when she had tricked Narcissa into bending close over her.

This time, though, it was no trick.

This time she was dying.

And then she felt herself being shaken… or no, not shaken exactly, it was more as if she were being buffeted by a strong wind; a cooler, kinder wind than the rest of the air that was pressing in on her. One thing she was fairly sure of though was her name, being called repeatedly in a low, urgent voice.

OOOOO

That _voice_.

It was so familiar. As warm and comforting and deeply loved as her favorite pair of jersey-knit sweats. But for all that, she couldn't seem to _place_ it. Who was here with her? Who was calling her name…?

"Hermione. Oy, Hermione! Look at me, okay? Hermione, don't do that. Please don't do that, love. You gotta open your eyes and look at me. Hermione, _now!_"

She blinked and tried to focus. She'd already felt herself beginning to… to… slide out of her own body, was what it had felt like.

And now, through a massive exertion of will, she was reeling herself back in.

She blinked again. Her vision had narrowed down to a tunnel – (the ever-present analytical corner of her mind, which hadn't deserted her even now, thought; _so this is what people mean when they talk about tunnel-vision_; and filed the information away) – and what little she _could_ see was severely blurred.

But after a moment's concerted effort, she was able to resolve the blur into a face, and to focus on the source of that much-loved voice.

And then she smiled, faintly, in spite of everything.

"God, you're so… beautiful." Her voice was the barest of whispers. She would have raised her hand to cup his cheek if she'd had that ability, but she did not. "I wish you were real. I wish… I…" Her eyes were drifting shut again. She was so _sleepy_ now.

"Hermione, no! Goddamnit, wake up. I'm _real_, I'm right here with you. And I need you to stay with _me_, okay? Damnit, Hermione, tell me okay. Please!"

"Okay," she croaked obediently. There was nothing on earth that she would refuse to do, refuse to _give_, to the owner of this voice. "…kay, Ron."

OOOOO

In the end, it was the sheer force of Luke's depravity that actually saved Ronnelle's life.

When he'd bound her arms to the bed, he'd bound her loosely. Or no, that wasn't exactly right; the bonds on her wrists were tight enough; she wouldn't be escaping from those on her own. But he'd allowed several feet of leeway in the rope _between_ her wrists, and the headboard.

He hadn't done this to be merciful or kind.

Hell, no. To the contrary, he'd done it for the most degenerate reason imaginable. He hadn't just intended to _rape_ Ronnelle, he'd intended to… to fuck her six ways from Sunday. To commit every act of perversion he could think of upon her innocent body. To do the things that he'd had planned for her, he'd needed to allow her some freedom of movement… and it was that freedom of movement that let her edge her way off the bed and onto the floor, avoiding most of the smoke and heat that were filtering into the room.

She didn't avoid all of it, of course; her lungs were filling with smoke just as surely as Hermione's… only thankfully, at a somewhat delayed pace. Getting low to the floor accounted for some of the delay; the fact that she was breathing so shallowly due to the pain in her ribcage was the rest. Even so, it wasn't entirely to her advantage to struggle off the side of the bed.

Barely conscious, bound, in shock, and severely lacking coordination, she landed on the floor rather jarringly.

She seemed to feel something crack further before she lost consciousness entirely.

OOOOO

Hermione was drifting in a gray place. The only thing keeping her tethered to reality – to _herself _– at all, was Ron.

He was talking incessantly… which always _had_ been a particular skill of his. Regaling her with tales of their Hogwarts days; old episodes that Hermione herself had half-forgotten, doing his best to hold her attention. Because the more attention she focused on _him_, the less went to the agony in her body or the desperation of her situation.

And every time she went to let her eyes drift shut, he would exhort her to stay awake; _come on Hermione, stay WITH me_.

So she lay there in the dark and the heat, struggling to breathe the smoke-filled air, just watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. Drinking in the sight of his face; the sound of his voice. That voice she hadn't heard in nearly two decades; that voice she'd never thought she'd hear again.

But even Ron's comforting presence couldn't change the fact that the air was becoming more and more poisonous to breathe – or that Hermione's condition was rapidly deteriorating. The pains in her stomach were dulling down now, at last; but she didn't need to look down the length of her body to know that the wet warmth on her thighs was blood – a _lot_ of blood.

The blood loss alone, in fact, was enough to be dangerous, and there was no question that she already would have drifted away had it not been for Ron's presence acting as an anchor.

Still, even _he_ could not stave off the inevitable, forever.

He was halfway through recounting a particularly colorful Quidditch game during fifth year when she started to convulse.

"Hermione! Shit! No!" His voice was panicked. "You've gotta stop, love, please. Come on!" He rode it out with her, until she lay still once more, her last reserves of strength nearly gone, panting shallow, irregular, painful breaths.

"Ron," she gasped out sickly, "it huh… hurts, Ron."

"I know, love." There was an answering hurt in his voice. "I know, Hermione, but you've got to hold on. I had to pull every bloody string I could _reach_ to get permission to do this, to come here. And you're not – Hermione, are you hearing me!? – you are _not_ gonna make it all be for nothing! This isn't your time to die! Malf – _Draco_ is on his way… you have to hold on til he gets here!"

She stared up at him, dazed with pain and the lack of clean oxygen. He appeared nearly solid, nothing like a ghost; just the slightest bit wavery and indistinct around the edges… though that could just as easily have been a trick of the smoke, or her vision deserting her.

But everything about him was exactly as she remembered, down to the last dear freckle in its place; the vibrant Weasley hair, the cobalt eyes, nearly black now with anxiety and fear.

God, she'd missed him so, so much… she wanted to tell him so, _tried_ to tell him so – but when she opened her mouth all that ensued was another awful, jagged coughing fit.

"Ron…" she managed at last, each word feeling as if it was scraping her throat bare, "it's huh… hard to… bree…heathe."

"I know," he said quietly. "I _know_ it, Hermione. But you have to keep on trying."

And she was. She was trying with everything she had… not only for herself, but for her unborn child, on whom she refused to give up hope. But as is so often the case, trying and succeeding were two different matters. There is only so much abuse a body can withstand, after all. Only so much smoke one can breathe; only so much blood one can lose. Only so much pain one can take.

And willpower or no willpower, Hermione was rapidly approaching the end of her ability to fight.

OOOOO

Outside, Harry was holding onto Matt with one arm, restraining the desperate teen from rushing into the burning building while using his wand, clutched in his other hand, to try to combat the flames.

Draco approached the pair at a flat run as they struggled in front of the door, shouldered Harry out of the way without so much as slowing, collided with the door itself, knocking it inward nearly off its hinges, and then vanished into the blazing house without so must as pausing to draw a clean breath of air.

Snape, who'd been at his heels, steadied Harry when he stumbled, even as Matt seized the opportunity to wrench away from his father and plunge after Draco.

"No –!" Harry cried, choking on the smoke which was now billowing out of the open doorway. The instant he regained his footing he made to follow Matt, but Snape's grip on his arm brought him up short.

"Potter, wait!" Snape shouted at the younger man.

"My _son!_" Harry was frantic. He pulled against Snape but his former professor held him in an iron grip.

"Potter! The best thing we can do for any of them in there is get this fire extinguished – and I can't do it on my own! Potter, help me, _please!_"

Both men were coughing now, as Harry abruptly stilled, realizing the sense of Snape's words. "Together, then," he panted.

"Right, _Aguamenti_ on three," Snape rasped. "We'll have to back up. Give it everything you've got, Potter. One – two – _three!_"

OOOOO

Inside everything was black, roiling smoke and orange, licking tongues of flame. Draco barged a few feet forward, tripped over some unseen piece of furniture, and went sprawling to the floor. Half a second later Matt landed on top of him. It might almost have been comical… under _vastly_ different circumstances.

"Potter!" Draco choked out, thinking it was Harry – he didn't realize that it was in fact the _younger_ Potter beside him until Matt gasped out a response.

"_Matthew!?_" Draco managed, struggling to his feet and pulling the boy up with him, "what the _hell?_ Get out of here, Matt!"

"Not… without… Ronnelle!" Matt replied between wracking coughs. "You can't… get them both… by yourself!"

"_Fuck!_" Draco swore savagely as he realized the truth in this. Still holding onto Matt with one hand, he ripped his own shirt off over his head, balled it up and shoved it at him. "Hold this over your mouth," he instructed. "Try to breathe through it, to filter the smoke. And stay close to me."

He should have stopped for a moment outside the house to cast a bubble-head charm, allowing himself some clean air to breathe, but it was too late for should-haves now, and it was too late for the charm as well – there was no clean air in here to trap. He was going forward exactly as he was, and he was leaving this house with his wife and daughter –

Or not at all.

Now towing a stumbling, almost gagging Matt along with him, Draco fought his way step by step deeper into the superheated darkness, pressing his nose and mouth into the crook of his arm, in a mostly vain attempt to somewhat filter the air he was breathing.

He noticed peripherally that the flames themselves seemed to be abating, thanks to the efforts of Harry and Snape outside. Jets of water were streaming in through the windows and the danger posed by the actual fire was fading… but the smoke was a different story. Thick, disorienting and noxious, it was plenty dangerous enough on its own.

As he struggled desperately through it, pausing every few steps to scream his wife's name, sending himself into paroxysms of coughing each time and never receiving any answer, a powerful wave of déjà vu swept over him.

He'd been here before.

No…that wasn't quite right. He hadn't _been_ here, but he'd… he'd dreamed this place, this moment.

That was it.

Weeks and weeks ago, when he'd woken in a cold sweat from a nightmare in which he'd been stumbling blindly through a thick fog, calling Hermione's name over and over again, sure somehow that she was deliberately refusing to answer him, furious with him for some reason that hadn't been clear in the dream.

It was _this_. It had been a premonition of this moment, this situation. Only he didn't think, now, that it was mere anger with him that was preventing his wife from answering. He was sickly certain that it was something else, something far, far worse.

"_Hermione!_" he yelled, voice cracking with panic, and then doubled over from a crippling coughing fit. It was Matt, this time, who hauled him back up so they could stumble on.

It was as they reached the long hallway that separated the home's common areas – living room, dining room, and kitchen – from the sleeping quarters, that they encountered Ron.

He came bolting out of a room about halfway down the hall, solid except for a shimmer like heat haze rippling over his body, shining with his own inherent light, like a beacon in the smoky gloom. He skidded to a stop some ten feet from them, though he seemed to be skimming a couple of inches above the floor rather than actually running _on_ it. But the single most compelling indication that he was, in fact, some sort of apparition (other than the fact that he didn't look one hour older than the last time Draco had seen him nearly two decades ago) was that he was currently experiencing no difficulty whatsoever with breathing.

Because, of course, he _wasn't_ breathing.

"Malfoy," he said without preamble, just as if they'd last spoken only hours ago, "I'm losing her – she's _dying_. You have to get her outta here – " he jerked his thumb toward the doorway through which he'd just shot – "_now!_"

His cobalt eyes settled on Matt next. "And Harry, you've gotta get the girl – she's not as bad as Hermione, but she's plenty bad enough. At the end of the hall… go, before the smoke takes you both down. _MOVE!_"

Draco managed to swallow his shock at Ron's presence fairly quickly, all things considered. After all, being stunned into immobility was a luxury he could ill afford at the moment. He took just a second to turn to Matt and demand, "Can I count on you to get Ronnelle out!?"

"I'm not leaving here without her." Matt's voice was grim finality.

Draco nodded once and took off for the doorway Ron had materialized out of – the doorway he recognized as Seth's. He moved in a low crouch to avoid the worst of the smoke and was marginally aware of Matt following suit as he made his way further down the hall toward the master bedroom.

Then he lost him in the smoke.

OOOOO

Ron, though – Ron was right beside him, lighting his way through the gloom.

"Malfoy, come _on_, she's fading fast!" the redhead snarled, and his tone of voice made it crystal clear who Ron held responsible for Hermione's current state.

Draco couldn't fault him, though; not when he was so incredibly grateful for Ron's presence at all… and not when he happened to blame the exact same person that Weasley did for this whole sorry state of affairs.

_All my fault… this is all my bleeding fault…_

He would have tripped over Hermione if it hadn't been for Ron's phosphorescence. She was crumpled near the foot of Seth's bed, her dark hair fanned out around her, half covering her face. Even so, Draco could see as he fell to his knees beside her that she was… beyond ashen. She looked like nothing so much as a corpse.

"No," he choked, pushing her tangled, sweat-soaked hair back, out of her face. His hands were shaking. "Hermione, please, please no."

A tiny crease appeared in her brow and her lips parted slightly; that was the only response she gave. It appeared that on some level she was aware of his presence, his voice, his hands… not consciously, though. Consciously, she was not there at all.

It was in fact only after she had completely and irrevocably lost consciousness that Ron had left her side, seeking help.

And speaking of Ron – "Malfoy, what the fuck are you waiting for, get her out of here, now!" he growled in Draco's ear. "I may _look_ solid but if you collapse in here there's not a goddamn thing I can do about it. You will fucking _die_ – and _so will she_. So will you _please_ move your arse before the smoke kills you both!"

As if on cue, a wracking spasm of coughing took Draco, shaking him from head to toe. He fought through it, pulling Hermione into his arms even as he struggled for breath.

It was impossibly difficult getting back to his feet while holding Hermione's limp form clasped to his chest. She seemed incredibly heavy – dead weight in his arms. Despite the smoke and the heat he went cold at the thought, almost crashing back to his knees.

_No. I can't lose her like this. Not like this. I can't. I CAN'T._

Shifting her in his arms he overbalanced and stumbled backward, fetching up against the wall. "Hermione," he panted, settling her so that her head clunked against his shoulder and rested there, "I've… got you… now, sweetheart. Stay with me… bookworm, stay."

Tightening his arms further, almost convulsively, he lurched for the room's single window.

"Malfoy, no!" It was Ron again, back at his side in the smoky darkness. "The windows are still warded, and I don't think you have the ability right now to deal with that _and_ hold onto her. You have to go out the way you came in. Whoever's outside has killed most of the flames, so there's one thing less to worry about. But for God's sake you have to _hurry_."

Spinning around, back toward the door, almost made Draco fall again. He was dizzy, starting to become disoriented. The floor was beginning to lurch and tilt beneath his feet in an alarming manner. Still, he held onto his footing with grim determination. If he fell now, it would further damage _Hermione_. That's all he was thinking of. Not himself.

Hermione.

He'd done her _enough_ damage, by God.

He was getting her. The HELL. Out of here. _Now_.

One foot in front of the other. Fighting the rolling waves of vertigo that were surging over him, crashing and receding like breakers at the seashore, he battled his way out of Seth's room and back into the hallway.

It stretched ahead of him, narrow, dim and full of smoke, looking a mile long.

Ron was still keeping pace with him. "Weasley," Draco rasped out as he started down the hall, keeping close to on wall in case he should begin to fall and find himself in need of support, "Weasley, my daughter... please… make sure, please."

"She'll make it, Malfoy." Ron's eyes were riveted on Hermione's still face, streaked with soot and tears and still smeared with blood – Narcissa's blood – at the temples. "The smoke wasn't as bad down where she was, and Harry's got her now. She's safe."

Draco shook his head in frustration, even though doing so nearly caused him to lose his balance and fall. He steadied himself against the wall, his booted feet crunching on the glass from the broken picture frames that littered the floor.

"No," he gasped frantically. His voice was hoarse almost to the point of sounding strangled. "Harry's… outside. That's Matt… and he's just a… kid. Fourteen years… old. Please, Weasley… you have to make sure. My daughter… _Please_."

"Not Harry…" Ron sounded bemused. "You're _shitting_ me." A heartbeat later, though, he pulled himself together. "Right, Malfoy, I'll head back and make sure they're okay. Are you good to get _her_ the rest of the way out?"

They'd reached the living room by now; they were almost clear. "Yes," Draco grated out, "Weasley, _go_."

Ron vanished without another word, leaving Draco alone to struggle the final few feet necessary to get clear of the blasted-out ruin that had been his home.

Hermione was slipping in his arms.

Every step, every breath, became a battle as the smoke scorched his lungs, his feet dragged across the charred floor feeling as if they'd been dipped in lead, and his unconscious wife slipped, inch by inch, from his arms. Her head fell away from his shoulder, her thick hair a dark, heavy weight now tumbling almost to his knees as he fought to hold onto her.

"No… bookworm… don't… _do_ this," he begged. Irrational as it was, her "refusal" to stay secure in his arms felt somehow deliberate to him – felt like a slight, a rejection.

This was probably heightened by the fact that he so thoroughly believed he _deserved _to be rejected for what he had done.

He had brought this entire nightmare down upon his family single-handedly, after all.

Still, that didn't stop the perceived slight from hurting. Especially when it was impacting his ability to save her _life_.

"Goddamn it… Granger," he croaked, adjusting her again – her legs in particular were coated, it seemed, with some warm and alarmingly slick substance (he wouldn't allow his mind to even _approach_ the word 'blood'; she _could not_ be bleeding that profusely, _period_) – "I told you… to stay _with _me!"

And then they were out.

And he was falling.


	20. Resolve

Strong arms caught him before he could hit the ground and he was grateful for that – but at the same time someone was prying Hermione away from him, and that was a problem.

Because he was not about to let her go without a fight.

He'd _never_ let her go again, he couldn't, he _couldn't_, he'd rather die.

And yet he was losing her all the same. Too weak even to keep _himself_ upright, she was being wrenched from his arms; he was failing her, _again_.

"Hermione! No! _Hermione!!_"

He was trying to shout but his voice came out as little more than a rasping croak. He fought with a strength born of sheer desperation against the arms that held him like a vice.

"No – Hermione! Damn it, let me go! _HERMIONE!_"

"Draco! Draco, will you just _listen_ to – " It was Snape's voice in his ear, his mentor's arms which were keeping him away from his desperately injured wife whom Harry was gently laying on the ground a few feet away.

Draco was having none of it. He wasn't interested in listening to anything Snape, or anyone else for that matter, had to say at the moment. He was beyond reason.

He wanted his wife.

"Severus," he panted, "let – me – _GO!_" And on the last syllable, he managed to yank himself free.

Exactly how he crossed the distance that separated him from where she lay, he would never know. At the time he was only aware of the two words that were repeating incessantly, _hysterically_ in his head; the words 'Hermione' and 'please.'

_Hermione. Hermione, Hermione, Hermione, please, please, pleaseplease_…

And then he was there beside her, hurling himself full-length on the ground and pulling her to him, pressing every inch of himself against her, one of his hands plunging into her hair, pressing her head to his shoulder and holding it there; burying his face in the corona of curls and breathing her in as his other hand roamed her body with frantic possessiveness, trying to touch all of her at once, to gather her closer, and closer still. Chafing her arms, rubbing her back, his arm encircling her waist and pulling her even harder against him, as if he were trying to… to _absorb_ her somehow.

"Hermione. Hermione, Hermione." He just kept repeating her name in his smoke-roughened voice, nearly incoherent with panic. Those three syllables had become his mantra, his sanity, his prayer.

"Hermione." He kissed the top of her head. "Hermione. Oh _God_, Hermione."

And then Harry was shaking him, shaking him and hauling him back up into a sitting position. He brought Hermione up with him, so that she ended up cradled crossways in his lap.

He tried to shrug Harry off. He didn't _care_ about Harry at the moment, had forgotten to care about _any_one or anything except Hermione, who was lying utterly pliant, unresisting – in a word, _lifeless _in his arms.

No. Oh please, please no. He couldn't lose her this way, no no no no no no no.

Not here, not now, not like this. Not his _fault!_ If he lost her now, and all his own fault too, it would drive him insane, he couldn't survive it, not in any meaningful way. Maybe in a locked-down-in-a-secure-ward-of-St.-Mungo's sort of way, but his own death would be preferable to that.

He had to make this right somehow. But what could he do, what could he _do?_ He was lost. He didn't know where to begin.

He dragged in a hitching, burning breath, his own lungs still full of smoke. Still full of smoke and God, dear _God_, she'd been in there for so much _longer_. Draco Malfoy was not a praying man, but he was bargaining now. "Please," he rasped, holding her to him with all the strength he had, "please… me… take… me… n'stead."

And then, when he could not possibly have comprehended how things could get any worse, he began to understand that Harry was shouting at him, and then, belatedly, to make sense of what, exactly, it was that the dark-haired man was saying.

Even so, he was only picking up key words over the rushing in his ears. It sounded something like, "Malfoy… bleeding… _look_… everywhere… too much blood… hospital… come _on_… baby… Malfoy… God's sake... _losing the BABY!_"

A long, long moment passed as Draco processed Harry's words.

_Hermione._

_Baby._

_Blood._

_Baby._

_Losing blood._

_Losing…_

_Baby._

_Hermione. Losing her baby._

That was when Draco stopped breathing.

One moment he was in agony, both physical and emotional; but still breathing, still… fully functioning and alive.

And then the meaning, and the _impact_, of Harry's words hit home.

Draco's pale eyes went abruptly blank. Moving slowly, trancelike, he disentangled himself from Hermione, allowing her to slip unresisting from his arms and onto the grassy ground. A heartbeat later he was on his feet, staring down at her like he'd never seen her before; her pale, disheveled, and utterly still form, covered in blood – and yes, God help him, yes, it _was_ blood – she looked as if she'd been sitting in a bathtub full of it.

She was positively crimson from her hips to her knees.

Draco took a single jerky, disjointed step backward. Harry clasped a hand on his shoulder, which he violently shook off. He still had not drawn in a breath since putting together what Harry was trying to say.

"Draco, for God's sake – "

"What baby, Potter?" He grated the words out from between clenched teeth.

Harry just stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Then – "she didn't tell you." It should have been a question, but it wasn't. His voice was flat with shock.

"Potter." Draco swayed on his feet – he still hadn't breathed. He was very slowly bringing both of his blood-coated hands up, into his line of vision. Staring at them with eyes that were still blank… yet somehow wild at the same time. "_What. Baby?_"

Harry opened his mouth to respond – Snape was simultaneously crouching beside Hermione, now checking her vitals – and that was when Matt staggered out of the house, half carrying, half dragging Ronnelle, and effectively ending the exchange between Harry and Draco.

"Dad!" Matt choked out, his voice so smoke-hoarse it was barely recognizable, "Dad, help! Ronnelle, I – " he started to list to the side, struggled to right himself – "I don't – dad – I don't think she's bree – bree – breathing!"

Then his legs went out from under him and he crashed to the grass along with Ronnelle, much as Draco had with Hermione.

Harry was already sprinting toward them, but Draco stood rooted to the spot for a moment, struggling to comprehend this new catastrophe for his family. His mind seemed almost to be rebelling against him; refusing to process, to make sense of, any more calamitous news.

"Ronnelle?" he said finally, watching Harry extricate her from Matthew's arms. His voice, barely above a whisper, was thick and slow – a voice that was, almost literally, drugged with horror. She'd been crumpled on her side; Harry now pulled her over onto her back, Matt holding one of her hands as he gasped for breath beside her on the grass; pressing her palm to his cheek and holding it there, his other hand cupping and stroking the side of her soot-smudged face.

Her hair was fanned out in a rumpled splash of silver-white, her long, slender limbs pale and jumbled. She was wearing a baby-pink bathrobe that Draco recognized as having been a Christmas present a couple years back – and little, if anything, else. This triggered a memory of what Seth had told him – had it been only a matter of minutes ago? It felt like a lifetime had passed – before he'd crashed the wards around the house.

Seth's frantic words which had made the bile rise in his throat then… which were making it rise again now, as the memory of them and the fresh realization of just what they implied, crashed into him with a nearly physical force.

_Dad, he… he made her… __**do**__ things with him! He made her take off her __**clothes**__!_

He staggered where he stood. Without any conscious awareness of what he was doing, he raised his bloodstained hands and clenched them both in his pale hair. He couldn't stand this. How could he be expected to stand this? _How?_

"Ronnelle," he croaked, "No. Oh God, sweetheart, no."

He threw one last desperate look at Hermione (_pregnant, dear fucking God in heaven she was pregnant and I didn't know, how could I not know that my Hermione was PREGNANT?_) and then stumbled toward his daughter.

"Ronnelle," he gasped again, dropping to his knees beside her. Dark, finger-shaped bruises were emerging on her throat. "Harry – what – is she…?"

"She's breathing," Harry said, still bent closely over her, not looking at Draco. Matt gave a strangled sob of relief… but any relief that any of them felt was short-lived as Harry fumbled open the tie of her robe and gently parted the material, showing Draco more of his daughter than he'd seen unclothed since she had been perhaps six years old. His breath caught as a fresh wave of horror crashed over him.

Her entire torso appeared to be a single, blotchy, spreading bruise, breathtaking in its awfulness. _No, _Draco thought numbly, and a bit nonsensically – his ability for rational and coherent thought really did seem to be deserting him now; _no, this can't be my daughter, this can't be my child, the one for whom I am responsible, the one I'm supposed to keep safe. This can't have happened to MY child, it can't, it can't, let this be someone else's daughter lying here damaged this way, I don't care whose, only not mine, not MY princess, no, no, no, no, no_.....

Harry was running his fingers lightly – ever so carefully – over her decimated ribcage. "Multiple fractures and breaks," he muttered now, still avoiding Draco's eyes. "That could well be what's saved her life, though. Kept her from breathing in all that smoke too deeply."

Draco tried to respond to this, but all he managed to expel was a sort of strangled "nuhgh." Matt was still holding one of Ronnelle's hands pressed to his flushed, sooty face. Draco groped now, almost blindly, for her other hand. Enfolding it in his own, he was appalled by how cold it was. She'd just been pulled from a burning building, but her small slim hand was as cold as death. How could she be this cold?

He couldn't make sense of any of this. He was… he was… it felt like he was treading water, way, _way_ out past his depth, barely managing to keep his head above the waves, and any second now he was going to go under, be dragged beneath wave upon wave of sorrow and guilt and grief and never, ever, ever break the surface or see the sky again.

Stretching out full-length beside her on the grass, still holding her hand in one of his, he gently grasped her chin with his other hand and turned her pale face toward him. She had been crying, he saw; her tears had cut straight, silver tracks through the soot on her face.

"Oh, Ronnelle," he whispered raggedly. "Oh sweetheart, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_…" Suddenly he had to know. He had to see, or at least _try_ to see, what exactly it was that Luke had done to his daughter. He wasn't sure if he could do it or not, his magic had been so haywire lately, but he _had_ to try.

He shifted, bringing his face so close to hers that their foreheads clunked together, the hand that had been cupping her chin sliding up now to caress the side of her face, his thumb skimming over the top of her cheekbone which was turning an ugly, dusky purple, the result of a blow Luke had landed there. In his mind a million images of Ronnelle went tumbling by him, sweeping past like a river on the way to the sea. Ronnelle in a nappy and a bonnet, sitting in Hermione's lap on the grass with a daisy chain round her chubby toddler's neck; Ronnelle with her silver-fine hair in pigtails, blowing out candles on a birthday cake; Ronnelle in a glittery pink ballet tutu and all of five years old, pirouetting across the floor of that little Muggle dance school that Hermione'd enrolled her in; Ronnelle in a billowy white flower-girl dress at the reception of some Granger-family wedding, icing from the wedding cake still on her nose as he'd scooped her into his arms and whirled her out onto the dance floor; Ronnelle at eleven years old, beaming as she held her Hogwarts acceptance letter; Ronnelle in Ravenclaw Quidditch attire; Ronnelle in a sky-blue bathing suit on holiday at the beach, splashing in the surf with Seth; Ronnelle blushing prettily as she modeled her very first set of dress-robes, looking so grown-up and beautiful that she'd taken his breath away.

"Draco," Harry was saying now, "I really think we should – "

Draco raised one finger into the air. "In a minute, Potter. Just give me a minute here, all right?"

His forehead pressed to hers, he closed his eyes and concentrated. _Please let this work. I have to see the damage for myself, I have to know the extent of it, I have to see, I have to know, please please please_...

There was a moment of uncertainty in which he was sure it wouldn't work. Then, with a flash of relieved gratitude as bright as a sun, he felt his old, second-nature magic – some of it, at any rate – responding to his call. He didn't know if it was his love for Ronnelle that was resurrecting it, or something else… and at that moment he didn't care, either.

Then Ronnelle stiffened in his arms, abruptly jerking away from him, as if, even in her state of deep unconsciousness, she somehow sensed his intended intrusion into her thoughts and memories – and on that same deep, intuitive level that went far past cognizant thought, she was frantic to keep him out.

To keep him from seeing what she had endured.

He hadn't thought that his heart was capable of breaking any further… this proved him wrong.

"Sweetheart, it's okay," he whispered hoarsely. "It's okay, Ronnelle, none of this is your fault, you haven't done anything wrong. Only I have to see, sweetheart, I have to know. I can't _fix_ what I don't know. I love you so much kiddo, you can't even understand. I love you, Ronnelle."

Gently but inexorably, he continued to press against her defenses. They crumbled.

And then he was in, he was seeing. Everything.

OOOOO

When he opened his eyes again, it was with a resolve like steel in his heart. He understood what he needed to do now. He was quite possibly the most shattered, the most emotionally devastated, he had ever been in his life, but that did nothing to dull the bright, hard new purpose that had filled him. To the contrary, it merely sharpened and strengthened it further.

Hermione would be looked after. In fact, when he shot a lightning-quick glance over his shoulder to where she'd been lying, he was not a bit surprised to find that Snape had already vanished with her – en route to St. Mungo's, no doubt. And… and he couldn't really think about Hermione at the moment. It wasn't that he didn't want to – he just _couldn't_. Couldn't think about his wife (_pregnant, for God's sake, PREGNANT and never told me, how could she not tell me, and how could I not KNOW?_) because in that direction madness lay, and madness would interfere with what needed doing right now. Hermione would be looked after, and that was as much thought as he dared to give her at the moment.

And _Ronnelle_ would be looked after. Harry would see to that, and Matt was still there holding on to her for dear life, as well. Draco was beginning to understand, albeit in a somewhat vague and distant manner at the moment, that the bond between Matt and his daughter ran far deeper than simple friendship, born out of spending their lives in each other's company since earliest childhood; deeper even, perhaps, than mere, ordinary love. Matt, it seemed, was to Ronnelle what he himself was to Hermione… or had been, at any rate, before he had failed her with such spectacular, near-lethal finality.

In any event, his family would be cared for. He had a different priority now, and it grounded and focused him. He even thought he knew where he had to go.

Where he could find Luke. Where Luke would be waiting for him.

Then, just as he was about to pull his hand from Ronnelle's, her fingers tightened, almost convulsively, around his own. His eyes flew back to her face, to find hers open and looking back at him, surprisingly steady.

They were clouded, though, those eyes the color of his own. Clouded with pain, and shock, and the dull, dead horror of innocence lost.

"Daddy," she whispered – not even whispered, really; breathed. "Daddy, I'm sorry… I… I took Seth in there… I should have known better… I'm older, I… I should have… have…" She trailed off, struggling for breath.

"Ronnelle, _no_," he said, grinding the words out between his teeth. "You listen to me, all right? You listen _closely_. I'm not angry with you, none of this is your fault. You – " he was almost choking on the words; he had to break off for a moment to compose himself. She thought he was angry with her, that she had done something to merit his displeasure. It was almost more than he could take, and still retain any sort of tenuous hold on his sanity at all. Could a person actually _die_ from a broken heart? He thought he was dangerously close to finding out. And actually, at that moment, he might have welcomed death.

But it wasn't an option. There was a score that needed settling, after all. By God, by _all_ things holy, there was a score that needed settling. _Now_.

"You did beautifully," he managed to choke out. "You did beautifully, princess, all right? You kept your head and you got Seth – "

"Seth," she breathed, her eyelids fluttering as she began to lose the battle to stay conscious. "Is he… _oh_…" Her eyes flew wide again for just a second as a coughing spasm suddenly wracked her; it was brief, but intense and Draco noted with fresh dismay the flecks of blood that appeared on her lips; the slow, crimson trickle of it appearing at the corner of her mouth. He wiped it away with his thumb.

"Shhh," he murmured. "You need to stop talking now. I love you, Ronnelle." He pressed a kiss on her forehead, which in contrast to her hands, was blazingly, feverishly hot. If he didn't rip himself away from her now, he would _never_ be able to – and as much as it hurt him to leave her, he knew he had to go. "Try to lie still and keep quiet. You're safe. Matthew and Uncle Harry will take care of you. There's something daddy has to do. Hang in there, princess. Be strong for me, okay? I'll see you soon."

He disentangled his hand from hers – she was trying to keep holding on, though her eyes had fallen shut once more – and lurched gracelessly, woodenly to his feet.

His stunned grief was trying hard to drag him under, but he wouldn't let it, wouldn't let it, _wouldn't let it_.

OOOOO

He paused just once, en route to the edge of the grounds, to glance back over his shoulder. He saw with mild surprise that Ron appeared to have joined Harry and Matt on the grass; Harry was in the act of gathering Ronnelle up into his arms as Ron crouched beside him, apparently deep in conversation with Matt. If Harry was in any way affected by Ron's abrupt reappearance some two decades after his death, the dark-haired man was hiding it well. All of his attention appeared to be focused on Draco's daughter.

Draco felt a sudden and immense surge of gratitude toward Harry for that. It didn't make it any easier to leave Ronnelle behind, but at least he was certain beyond the shadow of a doubt that Harry would do everything in his power for her.

Thank God, thank God, thank God for that. One less thing to worry about where he was going.

_Sweet baby bunting, daddy's gone a-hunting._

_And I will have him, Ronnelle. So help me _God_, I will have him. He will answer for what he's done to _all_ of us… but especially for you._

_I swear it on my life._

That one stolen glance backward, though, almost sent him sprawling, because just as he was turning away again Seth collided with him, moving as swiftly and silently as a well-aimed bludger.

"Unngh – Seth!" he managed to expel as all of the air was knocked forcibly from his lungs. He staggered, only just barely managing to keep his feet as Seth's arms clasped him like a vice, the boy's flushed face, sticky with perspiration and tears, slammed into his midsection and buried itself there.

Seizing Seth by the shoulders, Draco pried the boy away from him and dropped to one knee, bringing them more or less face-to-face.

"Dad, dad," Seth was babbling almost incoherently, his words tumbling over each other in distraught haste, "dad, where're you going, did you get Ronnelle, did you _find_ her!? The house – fire – dad – she's in there – it's on fire and _it's my fault that she's in th –_"

"Seth. _Seth!_" Still holding him by the shoulders, Draco gave his son a single, teeth-rattlingly hard shake. Seth broke off mid-word, staring at Draco with wide, haunted, traumatized eyes. "Seth, it's okay," Draco said, and then pulled the child to him, into another bone-achingly fierce hug. He brought one hand up to stroke through Seth's tangled, sweat-soaked dark hair. "It's okay, Seth, it's all right. Ronnelle is out, she's right over there with Uncle Harry, she's not – not feeling that great right now, but she's not in danger anymore. Now Seth, listen to me son, are you listening?"

Seth gulped in a deep breath, swiped the back of one hand hard across his eyes, and nodded. He was trembling, Draco registered distantly; shaking from head to foot. He was trying hard to bear up, Merlin but he was trying hard. Still, he'd seen and endured things that nobody – especially no _child_, for God's sake – should ever have to bear.

"All right," Draco said. "I have to leave for a little while, Seth." Seth hissed a sharp intake of air almost as if Draco had slapped him, his small form stiffening in Draco's grasp.

"_Seth_. This is not something I'm choosing. I would never choose to leave you right now, you _or _your sister. This is something I _have to do_, do you understand? A crime has been committed here, and there must be _punishment_."

"You're going to punish Unc – I mean, you're going to punish Luke?" Seth's voice was a ragged whisper.

"Yes," Draco said simply, with a calm, deadly certainty.

"Can I come, dad? I could help. I _want_ to help."

"_No!_" Draco's mind raced. He had to give his son a mission, a purpose; something to galvanize him, to focus his thoughts and energy, the same way all of _Draco's_ thoughts and energy were currently focused on revenge. Something to help Seth feel like he was making a difference, something to make him feel… _needed_. It didn't take him long to hit on just the thing. Some basic aspect of his once-Slytherin nature, which he couldn't turn off even when he wanted to, whispered that it could be very useful, under the circumstances, to capitalize on the guilt Seth was feeling over his sister's ordeal. That might be cruel, but it would also be effective. "Seth, Ronnelle is safe now, but she's not… _well_. I need you to stay with her. You stick to her like glue, don't let her out of your sight until I'm back, all right? This is important. Can you do that for me? I have to go, Seth, I have to go no matter what and I have to go alone, but I will feel a lot better knowing that you're watching over Ronnelle for me. Okay?"

The corners of Seth's mouth twisted violently down into a scowl and for a moment Draco feared that he might actually have to _Stupefy_ the boy in order to escape him… but then Seth yanked free of his grip and gave his bloodshot, exhausted eyes another savage swipe with the back of one grimy hand. "'Kay, dad," he croaked resignedly.

With an internal sigh of relief, Draco pulled him in for one more fierce hug, then got back to his feet and gave Seth a little shove in the direction of the burned-out house. "Go on now," he said brusquely. "You stick with your sister, Seth. I'll be back as soon as I… well, as soon as I'm done."

He'd started to turn away when Seth's voice brought him up short.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?" Draco asked warily.

"Be careful, okay?" Seth swallowed hard. "Ronnelle and I, we heard them – Luke and the old lady – we heard them talking… um… _before_. They were saying –" he paused, took a deep breath, obviously struggling for composure. He was appallingly pale beneath his shock of dark, disheveled hair. "Dad, they were saying that they'd been stealing your magic, making you weak. So just, um, be careful, okay? Please."

And he turned and headed up the gently sloping lawn, leaving Draco reeling in the wake of this new information.

_Stealing_… _stealing my_…

Of course. It made such perfect sense. Finally, finally the last pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. He understood everything now. Not only who had sent Luke into their lives and for what purpose, but also, at last, he understood what had been going on with his magic lately.

Luke had been _taking_ it somehow – siphoning it away from Draco and, if he had an ounce of common sense, into _himself_. Draco actually shuddered. It was a horrendous violation… nothing in comparison to what Luke had done to Ronnelle, but horrendous nonetheless.

Still, it did nothing to deter him from his decision to go after his… _brother_.

To the contrary, it hardened his resolve into steel.

He crossed the last of the distance to the edge of his property in a few long strides, took a single deep breath, and Apparated away…

Feeling, in the last split heartbeat of a second before the magic took him, a hand close hard around his arm.

OOOOO

A/N: The baby bunting line is from an old, old nursery rhyme.

_Bye, baby bunting,_

_Daddy's gone a-hunting_

_To get a little rabbit-skin_

_To wrap his baby bunting in._

It just seemed to fit the moment.

I'd like to send special thanks to Alex25 for traveling a thousand miles from sunny California into blizzard conditions in eastern Washington, to personally whip my ass into shape and force me to finish and post this chapter. (Okay, so that wasn't the only reason she came… but it's a definite bonus of the visit!)

Okay, so next chapter… ooh, where is Luke holing up to wait for Draco? Draco thinks he knows… do you? And who the hell is coming with him? ;-)


	21. Home Sweet Home

He staggered coming out of the Apparition; he'd been so utterly shocked when he'd felt that hand latch on to him that it was a wonder he hadn't splinched himself. Thrown off balance, he found himself falling sideways, driven hard to one knee, just barely managing to keep himself from sprawling full-length on the ground.

Turning his head, his lips pulling back in a completely unconscious, almost _feral_ snarl of anger, he registered the presence of Matt Potter beside him – Matt, a little less graceful than Draco in a fall, _was _spread-eagled in the grass.

It was to Draco's credit that instead of launching into the kind of language that automatically sprang to his mind just then, he managed to simply to simply grit out a furious "Matt. Go. _Home_."

Matt's eyes narrowed defiantly – then, a split second later, shot wide; focusing on something beyond Draco's shoulder.

"_DOWN!_" the teenager shouted, and scrabbling to his knees with breathtaking speed, he launched himself at Draco, knocking him flat.

A wicked-looking jet of light shot over them, slicing the air where Draco had been a heartbeat's worth of time before.

"Oh fuck, fuck _me_," Draco breathed. He rolled sideways, taking Matt with him, none too gently – then sprang to his feet, blocking Matt with his body as he scanned their surroundings, searching for their assailant. "Matt, GO!"

"No way." The reply was low and grim, and a second later Draco felt the boy's back pressed against his own; he was covering the area Draco couldn't see, wand at the ready. "You need me here."

"The _hell_ I do. Matt –"

"The hell you _don't!_ I just saved your life! Besides, Seth told me – shit! _Down!_"

Again Matt knocked them both flat; again a spell zinged overhead, barely missing them.

"It's coming from over there." Matt indicated a crumbling stone wall in the middle distance. "_God_… what _is_ this place?"

Draco's eyes swept the decrepit wall and rusting iron gate, searching for any gaps or chinks in the stone that Luke could be firing through. His pale gaze took in the unkempt, rocky, weed-strewn ground, and the dark, menacing, burned-out hulk of a skeletal house in the distance. When he spoke, his voice was sick with loathing.

"Home sweet home. And trust me, God has _nothing_ to do with it. This is where I come from, Matt. And a fitting place to end this."

OOOOO

"Couldn't have said it better myself, big brother."

Luke's voice, halfway between a sneer and a snarl, echoed across the decimated landscape of what had once been Malfoy Manor.

"It seemed right to bring mum home after what your _bitch_ of a wife did to her… and I had a feeling you'd do the math and follow me here. It's just too bad you're such a fucking coward you had to bring a _child_ along as a second to our duel… but no matter, he should be easy enough to dispatch."

"What did Hermione do?" Draco demanded, distracted by Luke's reference to his wife.

Luke's voice wavered toward hysteria as he screamed out, "_That CUNT killed my mother!_" For the first time in all of his dealings with his long-lost younger brother, Draco finally, completely, and indisputably understood that this was a person who was _not sane_. That was valuable information to possess, and the calculating, Slytherin side of Draco's nature quickly filed it away for possible use later. The topic of Narcissa was obviously a potent button to push; if he bided his time and pushed it just _right_, he might be able to make Luke lose control completely. Just now, though, he was still a bit sidetracked by what Luke had revealed about Hermione.

Hermione had killed Narcissa.

_Hermione_ had killed _Narcissa?_

In spite of himself, in spite of _everything_, he found that he was very nearly grinning.

"That's my girl," he murmured, only marginally aware that he was even speaking aloud.

Luke heard him, though, loud and clear.

"_You shut your dirty traitor mouth!_"

Oh, yeah. Luke was walking the edge, all right. Walking a tightrope over an _abyss_ of madness. How, _how _could Draco not have seen this dangerous instability before?

_Blinders. I had blinders on. I wanted so badly to believe that he could be salvaged, saved from the curse of this family. He's not a victim of the curse, though; he _is_ the curse. Its final incarnation. God, I've been blind. And now the people I love most are paying the – _

No. That track of thought would have to wait. Would _have_ to. He didn't have the _luxury_ of self-recriminations right now. Right now he had to concentrate on breathing steady (easier said that done with his smoke-ravaged lungs), thinking fast, and keeping his head in the game.

Because this _was_ a game – a game with a madman who, Draco was just beginning to understand, had spent his _entire life_ preparing for his assault on Draco's family. A lunatic whose only warped conception of love had come from the mother he had just lost. Crazed by grief, at this point Luke had very little _left_ to lose…

Yes, this was a dangerous game indeed. And the stakes were high.

Because not only was his own life in danger, but worse – _far_ worse – Matt's hung in the balance as well.

"Matt." Draco's voice was little more than a raspy croak, "for the last time, _please_ get the fuck out of here. What do you think it will do to Ronnelle if you don't make it back?"

"What do you think it'll do to Ronnelle if _you_ don't make it back?!" Matt countered. "I'm not going _anywhere_ 'til this is _done_. I already told you, you can't do it alone. Seth said you and Luke –"

"Enough!" Luke screamed, and sent a whole barrage of spells their way. This time, Draco was ready. Shoving Matt none too gently behind him, he managed to deflect Luke's attack, though the force of it made him stagger. Luke's onslaught had one big advantage, though; it allowed Draco to pinpoint with a fair degree of accuracy just where Luke was firing _from_.

"_Reducto!_"

Before Luke could regroup, Draco blasted away an entire ten-foot segment of wall. He was still in a vastly weakened state, magically speaking, and it took a lot out of him, to summon up that much force, but he managed. As he intended to _keep_ managing, until the threat Luke posed to his family was eradicated.

Even if it killed him.

Through narrowed eyes, he thought he saw Luke dive to one side, scrabbling to get behind cover again.

"Funny you should call _me_ a coward," Draco shouted furiously, "when I'm right out here in the open! Where are _you_, baby brother? Hiding with your tail between your legs? Didn't manage to steal quite enough of my magic, did you? Hoping all you'd have to do at this point would be to dispatch a beaten, broken man? Well _fuck YOU_, little boy, when you screw with _my_ family you'd better be ready for the consequences – so olly olly oxen free! Come on out and let's _play!_"

Crouching now, he reached behind himself and grabbed a fistful of Matt's shirt, then pulled the teenager along as he began very quietly and carefully to move sideways – still keeping his eyes glued to the gap in the wall he'd just created, and place where he'd seen Luke dive out of sight. He hoped the blast had injured Luke in some way, but he wasn't betting on it; not by a long shot.

Luke was damned quick on his feet. Unfortunately.

Draco had a sinking feeling that this was not going to be quick, or easy.

Perhaps a little more button-pushing was called for.

"Not gonna come out and fight fair, eh?" he called. "You know, I really wish I could have seen the look on mother's face in those last few seconds, when she really understood that she'd been killed by a _mudblood!_"

It was a well-aimed blow, but what Draco had forgotten was that two could play at this game.

"What you _should_ have seen," Luke rejoined in a sly, almost conversational tone, "was the look on you _daughter's_ face when she wrapped her lips around my –"

Draco's inarticulate cry of rage cut Luke off mid-sentence but the damage had been done. Driven past his ability to cope, Draco lunged bodily for the gap in the wall – and quite suddenly it was Matt who had _him_ by the shirt, rather than the other way around.

"No!" Matt hung grimly as Draco tried to shake him off. "Are you mad!? That's what he _wants _you to do! _Don't do what he wants you to do!!_"

It took a minute, but Matt's voice finally penetrated the red haze which had enveloped Draco at Luke's taunting words. He stopped, panting, raising a hand to clench in his silvery hair. He had to get a hold of himself. He shouldn't need a fourteen-year-old kid to tell him _that_. But still –

"Ronnelle…" her name was ripped out of him, unwillingly, painfully. "Oh God, _Ronnelle_."

Behind the wall, Luke tittered. It was a disturbingly maniacal sound. "She's a natural, Draco!" he called out; "A born talent! You should really give her a go yourself some –"

"_I'll fucking KILL YOU!_"

This time Matt had to tackle him to the ground. Another barrage of spells just barely missed them.

Shaking his head to clear it, it was then that Draco noticed that Matt was crying. Not _just_ crying, either, but actually full-out _sobbing_. Though intended for Draco, Luke's words had apparently found their mark with Matt as well.

"He _will_ pay for what he did to her!" Matt sobbed. "He _will_, he _HAS_ to! Only please don't just run into his trap! Draco! Please!"

It was like being drenched in cold water. It was just the wake-up call he needed; the shock of seeing Matt that way grounding him, bringing him back.

It turned the tide.

It took him a moment to realize that Luke was even still speaking – a moment longer to tune in exactly what it was that his brother was saying.

"– after all, can you? What a terrible waste. Almost makes me regret leaving her there to die."

Draco gave a short, mirthless bark of laughter. "What, you don't think she _actually_ died, do you Luke? I hate to burst your bubble, but Ronnelle's alive. Seth's alive – even Hermione's alive. I carried her out myself."

"_You're lying! Shut your filthy lying mouth!"_

"I'm not," Draco said grimly, climbing back to his feet and offering Matt a hand up after. "I'm not the liar here; _I_ never _was_. It's remarkable, really, little brother; you had every advantage in this situation; held every card, for _months_. I was a goddamn fool – I see that now – and yet, look at the outcome. _My_ loved ones are still alive; yours… not so much. How does it feel to be a categorical failure, Luke? You ought to be _glad_ mother's dead. I can't imagine what she'd be saying to you right –"

"_Shut up shut up shut up SHUT UP! I fucking HATE you!_"

"Yeah, I'm sensing that. I still don't understand why. I never did anything except try to welcome you into my life –"

"You killed our parents! You destroyed our home!"

"Our parents lived hateful, violent lives that caught up to them – both of them – in the end. And _this_ place – Malfoy Manor – was, _is_, an enclave of such concentrated evil it makes my hair stand on end! Don't you _feel _it?"

"Feels like home to me," Luke said defiantly.

There was an undeniable sadness in Draco's voice as he answered, "I suppose it would. Are you ready to finish this, Luke?"

A slight hesitation; the suggestion of a sigh. At the end, it seemed that Luke was as tired, traumatized, worn down and resigned as he was himself.

In very different, but very _real_ ways, it had been a shit night for _both_ of them.

Not that that changed anything.

Only one Malfoy brother would be leaving this place alive… or possibly neither of them. But no _more _than one, and that one would not be Luke. For Draco, this was an absolute. His brother was utterly corrupted; polluted; unsalvageable. There was only one thing to be done. He was no longer even keyed up about it; the bloodlust that had gripped him so firmly just moments before had evaporated like fog, leaving him simply… _drained_.

Physically and emotionally exhausted. And sad. So very, very sad.

Disposing of Luke was no longer anything to him but an ugly, depressing job that had to be done before he could get back to his own ravaged, destroyed family.

"_Well?_" he pressed.

"Yeah," Luke said from the darkness. "Let's do it, brother."

Draco nodded, mostly to himself. He raised his left hand. Braced himself for the expenditure of magic he was about to put forth. Then he moved his arm in an even, sweeping gesture in front of himself, from right to left.

And the wall came down.


	22. Nothing You Can Say

In that moment, Draco almost came down too.

He reeled backwards and would have fallen, but Matt was right there, catching and steadying him. For the first time he felt a flash of true gratitude for the boy's presence, selfish as he knew that was. Matt was a child and he was jeopardizing his life by being here; Draco shouldn't be feeling grateful, he ought to be bloody furious.

And he _was_. He was… both.

Then Luke was sending a mean looking knife-edge curse his way, and there was no time to think about anything anymore except keeping himself, and Matt, alive.

OOOOO

It was true; due to his cunning thievery of Draco's magic, Luke had managed to even out the playing field between the two of them rather spectacularly.

Draco, who'd spent the past two decades of his life able to control vast sums of magical power with no more than a thought, a mere flick of his mind, was now in a fight for his life and every spell he cast, every curse he hurled, drained him – he could feel it – just a little bit more.

Was Luke being drained of _his_ ill-gotten power? Did every spell he threw at Draco weaken _him_ a little further? Draco could only hope so. He had no way of telling for sure. If Luke was struggling, if he was faltering at all, he was doing a good job of concealing it from Draco.

"Expelliarmus!"

"Impedimenta!"

"Serpensortia!"

"Terminus!"

"Stupefy!"

"Protego!"

"Expulso!"

"Defodio!"

"Confringo!"

"Reducto!"

"Crucio!"

"Incarcerous!"

"Protego!"

"Avada –"

"PROTEGO! IMPEDIMENTA! STUPEFY! STUPEFY! _STUPEFY!"_

"Reducto!"

Draco dodged, but not quickly enough. He'd been positioned near the once magnificent, now decrepit iron gate that stood sentinel at the edge of the Malfoy grounds, and Luke's spell now blasted the metalwork to pieces. The force of the explosion sent Draco flying through the air to slam, head and shoulders, into what was left of the stone wall nearby.

Dazed from the impact, it took him a moment to come back to anything even remotely resembling full awareness. When he did, it was just in time to hear Luke shout, "Crucio!"

He braced himself for the pain, not at all certain that he could withstand the Cruciatus curse right now and come out conscious on the other side – but it never hit him.

"Terminus!" A jet of light from Matt's wand collided with Luke's curse in mid-air, and both spells disintegrated in a shower of sparks.

"You stupid little brat! Let's see how _you_ like it! _Crucio!_"

And then Matt was screaming.

"_NO!_" Using the crumbling wall for support, Draco scrabbled back to his feet, to find Matt writhing on the ground as Luke, wearing a triumphant sneer, stood over him holding the spell in place. Even so, there was a positive aspect to this situation; all of Luke's attention was focused on Matt. Possibly not expecting him to have gotten up so quickly (or at all – it _had_ been a hell of a blast) he wasn't paying attention to Draco just now, at all.

'Expelliarmus!"

And just like that, a split second later, he was holding Luke's wand in his hand.

Luke, stunned, stared first down at his own empty hand, then raised his eyes to Draco, his expression one of blank, uncomprehending shock.

Draco, for his part, hurt and exhausted, could barely fathom this abrupt turn of events any better than Luke himself. Suddenly swept by an incredibly powerful wave of vertigo, he stumbled; managed – barely – to keep his feet; staggered backward and half-fell against the rubbly wall. A blinding flash of agony lanced through him as a twisted shard of metal, a remnant of the gate that had formerly been attached to the wall, drove itself deeply into his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and yanked himself free. Through it all, though, he kept Luke's own wand trained unerringly on its owner's chest.

His _own_ chest was heaving. He couldn't seem to get enough air, and the world around him was spinning and darkening. He blinked hard. Steadied himself. The last time he'd hurled an Unforgivable had been at his father, decades ago… and now, this.

His brother.

Standing there looking like a deer in headlights (one of Hermione's Muggle-isms that Draco had picked up over the years) – his face a study in utter bewilderment, and suddenly looking very, very young.

_Let this finish it. Just let this finish it. Merlin… I'm so tired._

He swallowed hard. Almost convulsively.

"Draco," Luke began, his tone and expression suddenly placating –

But Draco just shook his head. "There's nothing you can say, brother. Avada Keh –"

"_NO!!_"

The ragged cry came from a quarter that Draco had never expected; "_Matt?!_" he demanded, incredulous that the boy would be interjecting on Luke's behalf, but he _was_ - and a second later, having scrabbled to his feet again as soon as, thanks to Draco, the Cruciatus he'd been suffering under had been ended, he actually collided with Draco, knocking him sideways to the ground.

_Again_ Draco's head impacted with something hard; a piece of debris from the blown-apart wall. Severely winded, stars dancing across his vision, he lay there for a second struggling to breathe beneath Matt's weight. His reflexes, and thought processes, were slowing more with each passing second; grinding to a halt, was what it actually felt like.

Now he had to cope with the knowledge that Matt had cost him a good, clean shot at Luke; a shot that was not likely to be so easily forthcoming again. What the hell had gotten into that kid's head!? He had known it was bad news the second he'd realized Matt had tagged along, goddamnit, and -

Then the sound of rushing blood that had been all he could hear for several heartbeats' worth of time diminished, and he finally got an earful of what the teenager was shouting at him.

" - kill him, you're killing _yourself!_ Draco! Are you hearing me!?" Matt had him by the shoulders, shaking him. "The life debt, don't you remember the _life debt!? _Seth told me all about it! You CAN'T KILL HIM!"

"Oh my... _God_," Draco expelled hoarsely.

The life debt.

The bloody fucking _life debt!_

How could he not have remembered it, how!?

Matt had just saved his life. Again.

_So... fuck ME... what am I supposed to do NOW?_

He didn't get much time to think about it. It was in that instant that he saw, over Matt's shoulder, Luke lunging for something on the ground... and coming up with Matt's wand clutched in his hand. Matt must have dropped it while under the torture curse.

"Draco swore colorfully and, pulling for reserves of strength he hadn't even consciously been aware he'd still possessed, he was rolling a second later; taking a surprised Matt with him so as to reverse their positions. He accomplished what he'd wanted, which was to place his _own_ vulnerable back toward Luke instead of Matt's, and he accomplished it not a moment too soon. He heard Luke snarling the words of a knife-edge curse and a split second later there was a staggering burst of pain as a deep, ragged gash was opened on his back, running nearly from his left shoulder all the way across and down to his right hip.

Well, this night just kept getting better, didn't it?

This new injury _really_ threatened to send him spiraling into unconsciousness. He gritted his teeth against it; clenched his fists in the grass. _I won't, I won't, I won't, I WON'T -_

Then he felt Matt wrenching himself out from under him. "No, wait!" he rasped, but to no avail.

Getting his legs beneath him again, Matt managed, miraculously, to dodge the next spell Luke threw his way and then - astonishing both Luke _and_ Draco, who'd just dragged himself back into a kneeling position, the wandless teenager snarled and hurled himself directly _at _Luke, full-on tackling him to the grass.

It was the last thing Luke had expected - physical combat was rarely resorted to, after all, when wands were handy - and because it caught Luke so deeply off-guard, it gave Matt the upper hand, momentarily at least, and quite possibly saved his life.

Swearing a blue streak, impeded by the stripe of fire that it felt like Luke had laid across his back, Draco staggered back to his feet, Luke's wand still clutched in his hand. He needed to separate the two teens, but didn't dare fire anything in Luke's direction while Luke and Matt were grappling so closely. Anything intended for Luke could so easily hit Matt instead.

It didn't help matters either that his vision was now blurring in and out of focus, darkening around the edges. Starbursts of utter blackness, like splotches of darkest ink, were randomly blooming in front of his eyes. The sound of rushing blood was back in his ears, along with the erratic thudding of his own heart. Merlin this was not good, not good, _unbelievably_ not good.

He staggered for a second as a rush of vertigo crashed over him; fought to keep his feet and won, at least momentarily. He was cognizant, though, that it was a losing battle. Everything was slowing down; his thought processes, his reflexes; every spell he cast drained him further, both magically and physically.

Draco was neither stupid nor naive. He was holding onto consciousness by a bare thread, and he _knew_ it. He was circling the drain. He recognized the feeling; after all, he'd been here before. A long, long time ago, but...

Some things you never forgot, no matter _how_ badly you might wish to.

And the way it felt to know that your consciousness, your magic, your vitality, your_ life _were draining slowly out of you was one of those things.

He knew this feeling, all right - and he also knew it meant that he had to act decisively, and above all _fast_ - or else risk losing the opportunity to act at all. Losing it to unconsciousness... or worse.

_No. No way. No goddamn, fucking WAY. I am NOT checking out while there is still breath in Luke's body. I am NOT checking out while his crimes remain unanswered. And I am not checking out while my family needs me. Not in a million goddamn years. By Merlin's name, I am FINISHING this!_

Matt and Luke were still locked together; a furious, tangled knot of limbs as each one of them, so similar in age and well-matched in stature and physique, vied desperately for control of Matt's wand.

Then, as Draco watched, Matt managed to pry it away from Luke. He sprang backward to land in a crouch on his feet, displaying a lightning fast, graceful agility that impressed Draco, even in his current foggy state. Luke picked himself up more slowly, glaring back and forth between the two wands - one of them Matt's and the other his own - that were now leveled against him. Draco felt an incredible, dizzying surge of relief. Finally, the upper hand was secured. He still had no idea how to proceed in light of Matt's revelation concerning the life debt, but now there would be time... a few moments, at least... to try to think things through. He indulged in a deep breath; then, never taking his eyes off Luke's, he unhurriedly and quite deliberately proceeded to snap his brother's wand in two.

Then things happened very, very fast.

As Draco tossed the broken shards of his wand away, Luke's face contorted into a mask of such furious, concentrated malevolence that he barely even looked human anymore. Lips peeled back in a rictus of hate, he apparently decided to take a page out of Matt's book and lunged, head-on, for Draco.

"_No!_" Matt launched himself sideways at Luke, knocking him flat again, before he could reach Draco. Pinning Luke to the ground, the dark-haired teenager drove the point of his wand into Luke's throat with savage force. One look at the expression on Matt's face was all it took for Draco to understand that Matt was ready to kill.

Ready, willing, and _more_ than able.

And it tore Draco up to have to watch it. His own hands were tied because of the life debt, but... Matt was too young to have to become a killer, too young and too... too bloody goddamn _Gryffindor!_ Too deep-down, ingrained _good_. Whether he realized it now or not, it would eat at him later; Draco was sure of it. This was wrong, all wrong. There had to be another way. Had to be, _had_ to be...

_Think, Malfoy, goddamn you, fucking think! Enough lives have been ruined because of you! There's something... some loophole somewhere... there's got to be... just THINK!_

Matt sucked in a deep, steadying breath. He was about to do it.

"Ava - "

That was when Draco had a sudden, blinding flash of inspiration. He probably would have realized sooner, if he hadn't been so compromised.

"STOP!" There wasn't even enough time to throw himself toward Matt. Instead he flung out his arm and knocked Matt aside with his magic. This time the expenditure of energy almost drove him to his knees.

_Almost_, but not quite.

He managed to keep his feet, holding one hand splayed out toward Matt, a continuous, steady thrum of magic keeping the boy immobilized; the other now extended toward Luke, a clear warning not to move. For a long moment he simply stood like that, chest heaving, fighting with everything he had to stay conscious, focused, and in control of the situation.

_Merlin_, his legs wanted to buckle.

Matt wasn't making things any easier, either; fighting against Draco's restraining magic with all his strength. His expression bespoke puzzlement... and a dawning of hurt and anger, as well.

Luke, for his part, kept perfectly still, breathing hard. There was no question that his survival instincts were keenly honed and, having apparently grasped the fact that he'd seriously overestimated the extent to which he'd weakened Draco, he seemed to have decided upon the sensible tack of waiting to see where this unexpected turn of events would lead.

"I'm sorry, Matthew," Draco managed at length, his voice betraying the immense strain he was under; it was barely audible, and unsteady at that. Low and wooden and flat with exhaustion. He sucked in a deep, shaking breath.

"I can't let you kill my brother."


	23. An Ugly Thing

Matt redoubled his efforts to break free from Draco's power then, his voice cracking as he shouted in furious disbelief, "You filthy _traitor!_ How could you save him!? You know what he did! Don't you _care_... you're as bad as _he_ is! I'll fucking kill you both! You better kill me now or I swear to GOD I'll _kill you both!_"

Luke, for his part, began to smile; a slow, sneering, triumphant little smile.

_I knew it_, that smile as much as said. _I knew that in the end, when it all came down to the wire, he wouldn't have the balls. I KNEW it._

Slowly, deliberately, he turned that hideous, evil smile on Matt.

_I won_, those glittering, malicious eyes seemed to be saying. _He's on his feet and I'm on the ground, but you know what, mate? I won just the same._

Like I always thought I would.

He even began to lever himself up on his elbows, some of his cockiness returning as Matt struggled desperately against the invisible force that was restraining him, tears of rage and frustration streaking down his face.

Then Draco spoke again, still in that wrecked, jagged voice, as if each word were a shard of glass that was being ripped out of him by force.

"Murder is an ugly thing, Matt. A goddamn ugly thing. I have to do this myself."

At that, Luke and Matthew _both_ froze.

For a second, there was nothing but a shocked and loaded silence. Then Matthew shouted, "But I _told_ you about the life dept! _Why_ would you do something that will kill you too, when I could just as easily –"

Draco shook his head. "The life debt," he said quietly, "was rendered null and void a minute ago, when I stopped _you_ from killing Luke. My _brother_ and I –" his eyes flashed to Luke's as he spoke with cold finality – "are even now. All bets are off." _Do you understand what I am saying?_ Draco's eyes were asking, as they burned into Luke's, as cold and pitiless now as Luke's own. _Do you understand what happens now?_

Luke's glacial eyes widened; his lips parted in shock. Any trace of self-assuredness that had been returning to his expression was wiped clean in an instant, his face blanching instantly to that chalky, _sick_ shade of pale that only a Malfoy could ever fully attain.

Oh, he _understood_, all right.

He understood _perfectly_.

So, apparently, did Matt. And he did not react well. If Draco had thought that this revelation would have a calming effect on the dark-haired boy, he couldn't have been more wrong.

"_No!_" Matt shouted, his voice breaking on the word. "_I_ need to do this, I promised Ronnelle! I promised if anyone ever hurt her, I'd kill them! I promised and I have to _keep _it!" A splotchy, hectic flush had spread over his face, and his eyes were burning. "You have to let me do this," he said raggedly. "I was meant to protect her."

"So was I," Draco responded, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper, "and I've… killed before; I'm already... damaged. With a track record like mine, one death more or less is hardly gonna matter... in the end. But you, Matt... you've had a good life and... you have a good _future_, too, stretching out ahead of you. You don't... no matter how angry you are in this moment, please believe me, you _don't_ want this on your conscience... keeping you awake at night. And _I_ don't want... a killer for my daughter. That's not who Ronnelle needs you to be."

Matt opened his mouth; closed it. Opened it again, started to speak, gave his head a frustrated shake, shut it again with a snap. His eyes, still blazing with rage frustration, never left Draco's.

Draco gave a weary sigh. There were two teenage boys sprawled on the ground in front of him, polar opposites in nearly every way. One the embodiment of everything noble, wholesome and good, the other a walking incarnation of destructiveness and evil.

Luke was beyond redemption, and Draco was gone _far_ beyond any desire to even _try_ to redeem him any longer. Not after the things Luke had done.

But Matt... in a very real sense, Draco realized, Matt's psyche was hanging in the balance at this moment. Just the fact that he had come here, that he was a party to this violence at _all_, would change him, hurt him, _scar_ him for life.

Draco couldn't help that. He regretted it, but he couldn't help it. He could, however, at least _attempt_ to minimize the damage to the only one of the three people present who was truly an innocent. So for the time being all his attention was focused not on his brother, whom he fully intended to kill, but on the dark-haired boy with the burning, furious eyes. It was dangerous, allowing precious, crucial time to slip away from him like this, when his strength was so close to giving out... but he didn't have any choice in the matter.

_He had to try_.

"I have to know that you understand why I'm doing this, Matt," Draco said quietly. "You don't have to like it, but I have to know you understand. I'm not trying to..." he paused for a moment; swayed dangerously on his feet; managed - barely - to master himself. "Not trying to take anything away from you. I just don't want you to... to... oh, _hell_."

That was when his legs finally went out from under him, sending him crashing to his knees.

Then _everything_ was happening at once.

It took a nearly superhuman effort for Draco not to black out altogether when he hit the ground, the jarring impact causing every single one of the injuries he'd so recently sustained to simultaneously explode with pain.

For just a fraction of a second - that was all, not even a heartbeat's worth of time - both Matt _and_ Luke slipped off his radar as he fought to regain control of his own traitorous body; but a fraction of a second was all Luke needed to launch one final, desperate, vicious attack.

Draco heard Matt shouting a frantic warning; released from Draco's immobilizing magic the moment Draco's concentration had been shattered, the dark-haired boy had launched himself toward Luke - but not as quickly as _Luke_ had launched himself toward Draco.

Matt's voice sounded distant to Draco, almost lost over the rushing in his ears, but he did manage to make out the words... just not in enough time to do anything _about_ them.

Not in enough time to protect himself.

"Draco, _look OUT!_" Matt's voice was splintered with panic - "he has a -"

And then Luke was on him, a snarling, hate-filled, silver-haired blur, before he had time to brace himself, before he had time to catch his breath or even _think_, knocking him flat on his back and drawing back a hand to strike, and that was when Draco saw what Matt had been trying to warn him about –

Luke's hand was clenched around the handle of the same knife Hermione had used to kill Narcissa. He'd pulled it from his mother's body after Apparating here with her, and had stashed it on his person for no particular reason other than it had occurred to him that it might possibly come in handy somehow. Truth be told he'd forgotten it in the heat of the duel until just moments ago when, stripped of his wand and seemingly at Draco's mercy, his resourceful mind had begun casting wildly about for some alternate means of dispatching his elder brother.  
Once he'd remembered the knife, all he'd needed was for Draco's guard to fall, even for an instant.

And how beautifully Draco had obliged him. Luke had no intention of wasting this one last, perfect opportunity.

Draco didn't know all this, of course; all he saw was the glint of metal and all he knew was that he'd better fucking _move_, and fast. With a strength borne of sheer desperation - (_it will not end this way, it will not, it will NOT!_) - he surged upward and managed to knock Luke's hand off its deadly trajectory - but not fast enough, and not _far_ enough. Luke had been going straight for his heart and Draco managed to thwart _that_, at least, but a split second later the knife was buried hilt-deep in his body, high up between his left collarbone and shoulder. It was almost exactly the mirror-image of where Harry had stabbed him all those years ago, during their ultimately victorious, and yet undeniably disastrous, confrontation with Voldemort.

His pale eyes flew wide, shocked by this bright, searing new pain, and all the air was expelled from his lungs with a forcible "huhh!" Luke, for his part, wrenched the knife free in preparation to strike again, with more lethal accuracy this time - and then Matt was there, wearing one of the most completely horrified expressions Draco had ever seen, grabbing Luke around the middle from behind, yanking him backward and away.

Draco didn't pause to assess his condition, to gather his strength, or even to think; his heart thudding wildly in his ears, at this point he was acting purely on instinct and adrenaline.

He scrambled to his knees for all that the world was now whirling out of control and he felt like the ground was simultaneously sliding sideways and dropping out from under him; as if he were tumbling through empty space, though he knew that in truth he was on his hands and knees in the grass.

A couple of feet away, Matt was holding onto Luke for dear life. The blond boy was struggling furiously, but Matt, by seizing him from behind, had managed to obtain an unshakable grip. He had even succeeded in pinning Luke's arms to his sides, neutralizing the threat of the dagger, and was bringing all of his force to bear on simply holding Luke as immobile as possible, despite Luke's best efforts to make him lose control by telling him, in between harsh, gasping breaths, just what an absolutely _phenomenal_ fuck his little girlfriend had been… "if only the stupid bint would've let up on all that god-forsaken _crying_. Please stop, oh God, please _no_, it _hurts_ - I dunno how you can stand her, she never _shuts up_. Though here's a friendly tip from me to you - kick her in the ribs a couple of times, she gets a lot quieter. More cooperative, too, if you know what I mean."

Matt was clearly being tormented almost past endurance; his jaw was clenched so tightly shut that he had to be hurting himself, his knuckles white, his tortured eyes leaking slow, hot, steady tears. Still, he refused to give Luke what he wanted – because what Luke wanted, wanted _desperately_, was for Matt to fly off the handle and do something rash; something that might potentially result in Luke regaining the upper hand.

And on some level, whether conscious or not, Matt seemed to understand that. So, in spite of the sickeningly horrific barrage of words and images with which Luke continued to assault him, he simply held on, his face a mask of grim determination.

As for Draco, he was fighting with his whole being to stay conscious, to stay focused on what he had to do next.

He sucked in a shallow, rasping, painful breath - let it out. Sucked in another - let it out. All of the color had faded out of his surroundings; he was seeing the world in shades of gray, and it was spinning faster and faster beneath him, feeling for all the world like one of the thrill rides Hermione had cajoled him onto, years ago, at a little Muggle carnival they'd stumbled upon. A Tilt-A-Whirl, he thought it had been called.

He hadn't cared for it in the least. Been frankly appalled that this was a pastime Muggles actually considered _fun_. It had left him faintly queasy but what he'd really disliked was the loss of _control_ he'd felt while strapped into that godforsaken contraption.

But that was neither here nor there - just more proof that his thoughts were becoming jumbled, confused; were trying to slip out from under him just like the damned treacherous ground. Well, the hell with _that_ - he had something to do first, God fucking _damn_ it.

He had something to do and It. Was. Time.

He began to close the distance between himself and Luke.

He'd only covered a few inches when the earth gave a particularly mighty lurch beneath him and he felt himself collapsing to one side; he managed, just barely, to catch himself on his elbow, understanding that it would be a _very bad thing_ for him to actually hit the ground full-length at this point.

He didn't want to have to fight his way back up from a completely prone position. He thought that might require more strength than he had left.

It was around this time that he also began to register, very distantly, that his teeth had started to rattle. It wasn't that the night air was particularly cold - it was, he realized, a symptom of the fact that he was sinking into shock.

He had very... _very_ little time left.

_Have... to finish... this fast. Have to. HAVE to_.

With a monumental effort, he righted himself and kept moving. He was distantly aware that he was bleeding a lot - a _lot_, from the final wound Luke had inflicted on him. His shirt was heavy, drenched, sopping with blood not only from the knife wound but also the gash Luke had managed to open across his back and from a dozen or more other injuries he'd sustained in the past few hours, going all the way back to the initial confrontation with Luke at Snape's house.

His body had reached its breaking point; it was shutting down. With a final, desperate expenditure of energy he managed to reach the place where Matt was restraining Luke. Who snarled at Draco like a feral animal and then kicked out with lightning speed, as sudden and vicious as a striking snake.

His booted foot caught Draco square in the midsection and knocked him flat on his back, and for a moment then the world _did_ slip away from Draco - blurring into blackness, the roaring in his ears fading to a distant, meaningless, unconnected buzz.

He blinked hard, willing his vision back into focus. For a long moment he simply lay there, spread-eagled on his back, dazed, winded, struggling to breathe, staring up, almost sightlessly, at the sky.

He was so hurt, so _profoundly_ hurt, on every level of his being. Physically, emotionally, spiritually… and he understood in that moment, on a deep and wordless level, that there would be no recovering from this; not really, not completely.

Never.

Not for him… or _any_ of the people he loved.

This realization almost pulled him under, but he fought against it; he'd have time later for self-recriminations. He would eat, sleep and breathe them until his dying day. Right _now_, though – right now he had to pull himself together. Unless, of course he wanted this to _be_ his dying day. In which case, Luke would be perfectly delighted to oblige him.

_Fuck that. Fuck. LUKE_.

_He is NOT going to win_.

Small, gradual movements at first; anything more demanding was liable to push him over the edge of consciousness, which was hovering very, _very_ close by. He turned his head first, his remarkable, pale eyes searching out, and then locking onto, those of his younger brother; so very like his own.

Meeting Draco's gaze, Luke ceased struggling against Matt and went abruptly, almost preternaturally still. His chest was heaving, but he stared back at Draco with calculated insolence; then shook his sugar-white, trademark Malfoy hair back, out of his eyes and graced Draco, who was still flat on the ground, with a sneering, malevolent grin.

"Everything all right over there, brother?" the younger Malfoy taunted. "Feeling okay? I gotta say, Draco, I'm -"

But whatever it was that he had to say was lost, because that was the moment that Draco chose to whisper a single word; "_Immobulus_."

Actually, the term 'whisper' would technically be an overstatement; his lips barely moved, and no sound at all passed them. Still, he felt the pulse of the magic, and knew that the spell must have hit its mark, because Luke was silenced mid-sentence. Opening his eyes, he was able to confirm that he had indeed rendered Luke, for all intents and purposes, completely paralyzed.

Wait... opened his eyes? _Opened_ his eyes? But... he hadn't _closed _them, had he? Merlin, when had his eyes slipped shut? And how had he not _realized_ it? Oh, this was so not good...

_Shit. ShitshitSHIT. Keep it together, Malfoy. Keep it together, godDAMN it_.

Slowly, excruciatingly, he levered himself up onto his elbows. "Matt, s'okay," he slurred. "You can let... let'im... go now."

Matt didn't need telling twice. Releasing Luke, he allowed the pale boy to slump unceremoniously to the ground, while scrabbling backward and away, putting as much distance as possible between himself and Luke, as if he'd been holding onto something toxic; contaminated.

Which really wasn't that far from the truth, when you stopped to think about it.

Luke was poison. And what really killed Draco, as he crawled toward his brother for the last time, was the knowledge that despite what happened now, that poison had already been administered… with stunning, horrifying success.

_Luke had already won_.

Luke had won. He was a dead man - and the look in his eyes as he watched Draco approach him indicated that he _knew_ it - but he'd won just the same. He'd set out to destroy Draco's happiness, his home, his security, his _family_ -

And he'd succeeded.

And that was a knowledge that _both_ brothers would take to their respective graves.

Reaching Luke, it was all Draco could do to keep from collapsing on _top_ of him. Instead he managed, half-kneeling, half-sitting, gritting his teeth against the shock and pain and vertigo that wanted to carry him away, to brace himself against the ground with his right hand while dragging the left one up to place on Luke's chest, directly over his heart.

It was a silent and bizarrely _intimate_ moment between the two of them, right there at the end.

Luke's heart was racing; his breaths coming with shallow, hitching, _panting_ rapidity. There was fear in his quartz-colored eyes now, but there was hatred and defiance as well; a bitter, _blazing_ hatred and defiance that would not be extinguished until he breathed his last.

"Matt," Draco croaked then, though he never took his eyes from Luke's face.

"Yeah?" Matt's voice sounded muted; shaky. He was holding himself together by a thread.

"You might… might not wanna… watch this."

Matt didn't say anything else, and Draco didn't look around, so he had no way of telling whether Matt was watching or not. Well, he had done what he could.

It was time.

He leaned even closer over Luke then; partially to better watch the light leave his eyes, partially because as his strength continued to fail him he was in the process of collapsing, very, very slowly, back to the ground.

Draco took that long, spiraling, surreal moment, as he gathered the tattered remnants of his strength and concentration for the killing curse, to grieve. It was a deep, _cutting _sense of loss that engulfed him then. And it wasn't only grief for his wife and children; for the broken shards of a happy life that Luke had left in his mind-numbingly destructive wake. It was grief for _Luke_ too - for the potential of what he could have been, had he not been deliberately, systematically, _cataclysmically_ warped, since infancy, by his own mother.

And in the end, at that very last possible second, even after everything Luke had done, even after all the damage he had wrought, pain he had inflicted; the horror, the suffering, the near-total annihilation of the people Draco loved the most – even after all of that, Draco granted his brother one small mercy.

He invoked the curse in full silence - not even his _lips_ moving this time - so that in one instant Luke was staring up at him, entire body taut as a bowstring, pulse hammering and breaths piling up as he anticipated those dreaded words... and in the next there was nothing; nothing at all. Just an empty shell, all the tension draining from it in a heartbeat's worth of time.

He was dead, literally, before he knew what hit him.


	24. Sacrifice

To Draco, it felt as if the earth had finally and completely dropped out from beneath him, sending him into free-fall.

He had just employed an Unforgivable Curse - dark magic - something he hadn't done in decades, and something which required a great deal of magical energy, focus and will under the _best_ of circumstances. Not to mention, that little kindness he had bestowed on Luke by performing the spell in complete silence had added an extra level of complexity to the magic, draining him even a little bit more.

He was wiped out. He had nothing – _nothing_ – left.

He slumped to the ground beside his brother's body.

He was falling… falling… falling through darkness.

" – aco! _Draco!_ Draco, wake _up!_"

He swam back toward awareness to feel hands on his shoulders, turning him over onto his back; and then a fresh explosion of pain ripped through his chest as something was pressed down, _hard_, against the place where Luke had stabbed him.

Wrenching his eyes open, he took in the fact that Matt was kneeling over him, holding a wadded up piece of material to his wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.

"_Draco!_" Matt looked frantic. He was shouting, but Draco could barely hear him. "I don't know how to help you! Tell me what to _do!_"

Draco dragged in a shallow, hitching breath; swallowed hard. "Hos… pital…" he rasped. "Port… portkey. Have to… find something… make…"

His eyes were pulling themselves closed again.

"I don't _know_ how to make a portkey," Matt protested. "That's advanced magic! Draco – _Draco!_ God, you've gotta wake up!"

"Shit," Draco whispered. His voice felt scraped raw. In fact, _everything_ about him felt raw. He'd forgotten that Matt was too young to have been taught portkey magic. And he'd just _remembered_ that a portkey wouldn't work here, anyway. Though the manor had been a burnt-out ruin for decades, the grounds were still warded.

He took a moment to try to rally himself. What the hell were they gonna _do?_

"'Alright… Matt," he managed at length, "you have… havta help me… get out past that wall. Then we'll fig… figure… out…" he trailed off. Consciousness was escaping him like water from a sieve. The harder he tried to hold onto it, the more tenuous and elusive it became.

And _fuck_, but he was hurting.

Then he felt Matt's arms lock around him and the boy was hauling him into a sitting position.

He gave a choked cry, jolted back to full awareness.

"Can you stand if I help you?" Matt was asking. "I think we can - "

But at that point Draco stopped hearing him. His eyes had just fixed on Luke. It was the first good look he'd gotten at his brother, dead.

And it rocked him right down to his foundation.

Luke's gray eyes were open and glazed; staring sightlessly up at the sky. and now that his life-force, his essence, whatever fierce yet intangible spark had made him... well, _Luke_... was gone, and the body was simply an empty, cast-off husk, Draco found it was more than ever like looking at some eerie carbon copy of himself.

Himself at seventeen... himself _dead_.

It was dizzying. And he was in such a deeply compromised state already that he found himself beginning to wonder disjointedly, a little crazily, whether maybe that _wasn't_ himself lying dead on the manor grounds at seventeen.

_Maybe mother killed me after all. Maybe everything else from then until now has been... what? Some sort of purgatory? Some celestial test that I finally and resoundingly failed, tipping me over into hell? Because I AM in hell - these past twenty-four hours, at least, I am.  
_  
He couldn't look at the body anymore. He slammed his eyes shut, but that only made the dizziness which had engulfed him worse. A second later he was shoving desperately away from Matt, using some hidden reserve of strength he hadn't known he'd possessed, and then retching, retching, _retching_ onto the ground.

He was still vomiting a short while later when the air was rent by the whip-crack sound of a double Apparition off beyond the wall, followed by shouts and footsteps approaching at a run. Finally heaving himself dry, Draco collapsed on his side, dragging up one hand to press against his knife wound. His shirt was so thoroughly sodden with blood, he realized dimly, that he could have wrung it out like a sponge... if he'd had the inclination. Or the strength.

He was able to make out Harry's voice, and Snape's; and managed to bring his blurry vision into focus just in time to see Matt leap to his feet and be engulfed in his father's arms.

Snape, for his part, raced directly to Draco, hurling himself to his knees beside him in the grass. Throwing only the most perfunctory of glances toward Luke, he focused all of his attention toward assessing the damage to his former protégé.

"Severus," Draco croaked, "how... how did you find...?"

"Potter went shithouse-goddamn-_crazy_ when he realized Matthew had tagged along with you," Snape said, his dark eyes grim. "It took him a little while - first we had to get things settled at the hospital and then he had to calm down to a state where he could think clearly... but in the end he figured out where you must have gone. Even remembered the coordinates. Now hold on -" and he grabbed the collar of Draco's shirt both-handed and ripped, unceremoniously tearing it open all the way down the front so as to get a better idea of the extent of Draco's injuries.

His eyes widened then, in shock and horror, for just a fraction of a second before narrowing furiously. "God-fucking-_damn_ it, Draco, what the hell happ -"

But Draco had latched onto something Snape had said a moment ago. "Hospital," he broke in. "Severus, my family - Hermione -" he was trying to lever himself up onto his elbows, and failing spectacularly. Snape put a hand flat on his chest and shoved him back down.

"Blast it all, will you lie _still!_" he virtually snarled, grabbing up the wadded, blood-soaked piece of cloth Matt had been holding to the worst of Draco's wounds - it had fallen to the ground when Draco had wrenched himself away from the boy - and jamming it back into place.

"Severus..." Draco lay there, staring at nothing, fighting the pain, fighting for breath. "You have to tell me... please..."

"Seth is fine," Snape said. "Exhausted, traumatized, bruised up and showing residual effects from a couple of... less-than-friendly spells. But overall fine. Ronnelle is... she's... stable. And Hermione..." but he paused there, seeming unsure of how to continue.

"Hermione what?" Draco rasped, eyes snapping back to his mentor's face. "Severus, _what!?_"

Snape opened his mouth; shut it again. Utterly out of character, he seemed at a complete loss for words; unsure of how to proceed.

"No," Draco croaked. Then, "No. _NO!!_" This time he fairly bolted upright, despite the searing agony this action caused him. Lightning fast, _impossibly_ fast, he had his hand fisted in the front of Snape's robes, jerking the older man toward him until they were nearly nose to nose. Mercurial eyes blazing with a depth of despair nearly beyond human endurance he whispered, "Severus, no. Please say _NO_."

"Draco!" Snape had him by the shoulders now, steadying him. "Draco, shit - she's alive! She's _alive_. It just..." he hesitated again. The situation was bad... but he'd never deliberately deceived Draco before and wasn't about to start now.

He swallowed thickly. "It doesn't look good."

"Oh God. You have... havta get me... back there... _now!_"

"What the fuck do you think Potter and I came here for, a goddamn _picnic!?_" Snape was getting angrier by the minute. "I could probably have had you back already, except you've been so bloody hell-bent on fighting me and wasting time with - Draco! _Draco!!_"

All the resistance had just gone out of Draco, evaporating from his body like water. Cursing vehemently, Snape eased him - now half-conscious at best - back to the ground. Harry was there too then, a split second later, looming over him from the other side, Matt hovering anxiously at his father's shoulder.

They were talking, rapid-fire, above him; he could only catch snatches of what they were saying anymore, just random, disconnected, meaningless words. They weren't important. Only Hermione was important now. Reaching her was all that mattered. He was having a hard time holding onto his thoughts; they were scattering, floating away, drifting into darkness.

What little was left of his consciousness, though, was a hundred percent bent on his wife.

_Oh God Hermione, please hold on... Please, you have to... please please please...  
_  
The last thing he heard was Harry saying, "all right, on three. One... two..."

And then he was being lifted.

And then everything went black.

OOOOO

"Draco."

"Huh?" Draco raised his head with a jerk when he heard his mentor's voice from above him. His pale eyes, always striking, stood out in even sharper contrast than usual now, thanks to the dark smudges of fatigue that nearly ringed them. His fair hair was a stick-uppy mess, the result of being raked through repeatedly. He was wearing sky-blue hospital-issue pajama bottoms, and a white tee-shirt over yards and yards of bandages; and was sitting on the floor outside the door to Hermione's room, his back against the wall. He'd had his elbows braced on his knees and his face in his hands when Snape had approached; now he was staring up at the older man with those haunted, desperate eyes, looking twenty years younger than he was. Lost and vulnerable and utterly _terrified_.

"Severus?" he asked, sounding dazed. "What is it? Did you hear something?"

Snape ignored the sheer ludicrousness of this question; Draco was the one who'd taken up a vigil next to Hermione's door; if there were any news, _he_ would be the first to hear it. Instead of addressing this fact, he hunkered down, bringing himself to the younger man's eye level.

"Draco, for God's sake, you need to be in bed. You're not doing her any good here. This isn't accomplishing anything. The moment they have any definite news for you, they will find you - they're too goddamned frightened of you _not_ to. So go lie down. _NOW_."

Draco's spell of unconsciousness had, it transpired, been relatively short-lived. He'd been conscious again, and going absolutely _berserk_, by the time the mediwizards had been halfway through patching him up. After briefly checking on Seth and Ronnelle - (they'd been placed in the same room and had both been deep in potion-induced slumbers, with Matt slouched exhaustedly in an armchair in the corner) - he had stationed himself outside Hermione's door, and been there ever since.

The hospital staff would not allow him entry. Despite the fact that Draco _could_ be intimidating, particularly when in full frantic-husband mode, they had had bravely held their ground.

Hermione was too susceptible to infection at the moment, they said, and besides, the atmosphere in the room was chaotic enough without a distraught husband hovering over her and distracting them with useless questions every five seconds. The mediwitch in charge had finally told Draco in no uncertain terms, as she barred the doorway with Hermione's blood on her hands, to "stay the hell out if you want your wife to _live!_"

That was when Draco had virtually collapsed to the corridor floor.

He looked about ten degrees _beyond_ awful, Snape thought. The human body was not meant to endure the levels of stress and fatigue that Draco was currently under. And he'd lost _so much blood_. They had been going to give him a good-sized dose of blood replacement serum, but he'd refused it; it would have taken time and he'd been too frantic to reach Hermione. A deep, chalky pallor had settled over him that Snape didn't like one bit. And he wasn't even _done_ bleeding yet; tiny scarlet stains were blooming like wildflowers all over his white shirt. He was bleeding right through the bandages. And Snape knew, having watched the bandages being applied, that there were a _lot_ of layers to bleed through.

This was _so_ not good. Snape reached out; clasped Draco by the shoulder. "I _swear _to you," he said quietly, "the second there's news, if they don't find you with it, _I will_. You have _got _to lie down, Draco."

But Draco was having none of it. He gave his head a weary shake, then allowed it to thud back against the wall behind him, tipping his gray gaze up toward the ceiling. He let his eyes fall shut.

"I can't," he said, his voice little more than a gravelly croak. "This is because of me. I did this to her. I have to stay. I have to…" He trailed into silence, then swallowed convulsively and dropped his head back into his hands. When next he spoke, his voice was muffled… but the torment in it was perfectly clear.

"I don't… deserve to rest, I don't… I… oh _God_, Severus. My _wife_. My… _Hermione_." Her name came out as a raw, jagged whisper. And then he was sobbing. Awful, gut-wrenching sobs that wracked his whole body there on the hospital floor. He let his face fall to his knees, laced his hands together on top of his head, fingers clenching hard in his pale hair, and cried like a child.

"Draco – shit. _Shit!_"

Snape pulled the younger man to him hard, holding on tight. Instantly Draco tensed against him, tried to wrench himself free; but Snape was having none of it. He held on almost ferociously and a moment later Draco gave up and sagged into the embrace. He lacked the strength to do anything else.

They stayed that way a long time, until Draco had sobbed himself dry and the head mediwitch again appeared in the hallway, this time with more definitive news. Though she looked tired nearly to the point of being haggard, she lingered to speak with Draco as the rest of the medical team filed out.

Draco scrambled to his feet, using the wall for support.

"Can I -"

"Yes. You can see her now. She is... she is stabilized. For the time being. But Mister Malfoy -"

Draco swallowed hard. "Yes?" he asked raggedly.

"About the child. I'm sorry. We did everything we could, but... I'm truly very sorry. We couldn't save her."

"Her." Draco repeated the word, though it came out as barely more than a sick little expulsion of air. He pressed his eyes shut and actually staggered, as if he'd been dealt a physical blow. He fell against the wall with a muted thud, Snape clasping his arm in silent support, knowing better than to trivialize this news with trite, useless words.

"I am sorry," the healer repeated quietly.

Draco's face was turned in toward the wall that was holding him up; his forehead leaning against it, silvery hair obscuring his eyes. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "Can... I go in now?"

"Of course. But you need to understand, she won't wake, and... we're still not at all sure that she'll... well, just call if you need anything. I'll be right down the hall."

Draco gave the barest of nods, still with his forehead pressed to the wall.

The witch started to turn away, then paused. "Only you, though, Mister Malfoy," she said, with a pointed look at Snape. "We're limiting access to immediate family. She is still in a... a very precarious state and we want to minimize her risk of contagion. You understand?"

Again that ghost of a nod.

"All right then." And she was gone.

"The hell with _that,_" Snape growled, glaring after her. "You shouldn't have to go this alone. If you –"

"No." Draco pushed himself away from the wall, shoved his hair out of his face, turned to face his mentor. "No, it's okay. I think I… I, um… I _would_ like to be alone with my wife… for a while."

Snape was clearly troubled, but reluctantly acquiesced. "All right, Draco, but… if you need _anything_… I won't be far. Okay?"

Draco nodded, reaching for the doorknob. "Yeah, I… yeah. Thanks."

"Draco –" Snape started to say something else, but Draco was already through the door, shutting it beside himself with quiet click.

OOOOO

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I love you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." It must have been the thousandth time. He'd been sitting beside his wife's still body, one of her slim hands clasped in both his own, for…

For what? He had completely lost track of the passage of time. It felt as if he'd been here forever, as if he'd never been anywhere _else_. Was there still a world outside this room? Was life continuing as usual for countless others, even as his own life lay splintered, in ruins? It hardly seemed possible, and yet he supposed it must be so.

It made him vaguely, distantly angry. _Nothing_ should be normal while Hermione, _his_ Hermione, clung to life by a thread. Nothing should be status-quo. There should have been weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Earthquakes and tsunamis and the sun turning black. There should have been outward calamity to match the incredible depth of his inward suffering.

There should have been… but there was not. All there was, was the dim silence of the hospital room, broken only by his own jagged, anguished, whispered words. He bowed his head and raised her hand to his face, his lips now moving against her skin.

"Don't leave me. Please don't, Bookworm. I love you. I'm sorry. So sorry." That's all he'd been saying for… for the lifetime, for the _eon_, he'd been sitting in this room. Just the same three phrases, over and over and over again…

_I love you. I'm sorry. Don't leave me alone_.

_I love you. I'm sorry. Oh GOD, please don't leave me alone_.

And then...

"She can't hear you, Malfoy. She's not here."

Draco's head shot up, his grip on Hermione's cold hand tightening impulsively. There, in a corner of the room that had been uninhabited a bare second earlier, stood Ron.

_Ron_. Draco had forgotten all about him. Practically drugged with exhaustion and grief, It took him a moment even to process what he was seeing; and yet another to collect himself. Even then, all he managed to get out was, "Weasley... what?"

Ron folded his arms across his chest. "I said, she isn't _here_." The redhead's tone verged on outright belligerence. "Don't you know your own wife well enough to sense whether she's even in the room? _That_ -" he tilted his head toward the pale, inert form on the hospital bed - "isn't Hermione. Just an empty shell being kept alive by potions and spells. You're losing her, Malfoy. In fact, she could very well be gone past recovery already."

Draco swallowed hard against the panic that was rising, like bile, in his throat. It was choking him, crushing him. He could hardly think. He could hardly _breathe_.

"Where is she, then?" he asked, his voice nearly strangled as he forced the words out past the lump in his throat. "Weasley? Do you know?"

Ron paused a moment, appearing to be engaged in some inner struggle. Then he sighed. "Yeah, Malfoy, I know where she is. She's gone Between again, and she... she's trapped there."

"Between…" Draco echoed. "You mean like… like the day…"

"I died, yes," Ron said flatly. "Like the day I died. Only this time, I'm not there to find her, to explain what's going on, to give her the energy she needs to get back, and a shove in the right direction. This time she's alone… lost in the dark. By all rights she should have crossed over _already_, but there's some small, stubborn part of her that's clinging to the last little spark of life she has left. But that's actually the worst thing she could do under the circumstances, because as long as she stays Between she's leaking energy the way _you're_ leaking blood. Soon she won't have enough to go forward _or_ back. Malfoy, she'll be trapped in there forever."

It really shouldn't have been possible, at that point, for Draco to go any paler than he already was… and yet, somehow, at Ron's words, he managed it. If he hadn't already been sitting, he would have collapsed. The concept of losing Hermione was horrific enough even with the assumption that she'd be resting in peace, that she'd be… somehow in a _better_ place.

But_ this_… what Ron was telling him… that Hermione could be condemned to wander in darkness and solitude, trapped between life and death, between two worlds, forever – this was beyond endurable.

"How... how do..." it was such an effort just to form words. He stopped; tried again. "Weasley, how do you even _know_ that?"

Ron shifted his gaze, looking past Draco now, staring off into the middle distance, his expression guarded; closed.

"I'm dead, Malfoy. I know what I need to know."

Deja vu crashed over Draco - the sensation more intense than he'd ever experienced before. It was disorienting. _When had Ron said those words before?_

But really, that hardly mattered. What mattered was Hermione. _All_ that mattered was Hermione.

There had to be something that could be done. There _had_ to be. The alternative was... simply unacceptable.

"So... then..." Draco bowed his head, dropped Hermione's hand and pressed his fingers to his temples, rubbing hard. "You just... you have to go after her, right? What are you _waiting _for? Go after her!"

"I can't." Ron's voice was quiet, and the anger from a moment ago had vanished from his tone. All that was left now was sadness. Such deep sadness. "Don't you get it? I completed my transition. I _crossed_. And the doorway from the Between to the After only opens in one direction. I'd go after her in a second if I could but... that option's closed to me."

"BUT YOU'RE _HERE!_" Draco was on his feet and shouting before being conscious of having moved at all. "Damn it, Weasley, you're _here!_ If you can come here, you _must_ be able to go there! You _MUST_, you -" he broke off, panting, his sugar-white hair hanging in his eyes, his fists clenching and unclenching spasmodically.

Ron spread his hands, a helpless gesture. "I'm sorry, Malfoy. You have no bloody idea how sorry I am. It's a different set of rules. The afterlife is... complicated. It has more bureaucracy than _ten _goddamn Ministries of Magic."

Draco just stared at him for a moment. He was trembling - no, more than trembling; he was shaking from head to foot, shaking hard. A sheen of perspiration had broken out over his ghastly pale face, with bright, sharp little fever spots of color burning high on his cheeks. His body, tired and hurt and overwhelmed as it was, was giving out. The fever had begun to creep in during his confrontation with Luke - now it was running through him unchecked. It was _raging_.

When next he spoke, his voice was shaking as hard as _he_ was. "You're saying... that Hermione could... could be trapped... forever... in the dark… because of... some fucking supernatural _bureaucracy!?_"

"No." Ron shook his head. His voice was still quiet; almost gentle. His tone was at odds with the utter devastation of his next words.

"No, Malfoy. No. This is all because of _you_."

For a minute Draco showed no reaction; then he sat down, hard, on the edge of Hermione's bed. It was actually more as if his legs went out from under him – if the bed hadn't been there, he'd have fallen to the floor.

What he did instead was to twist away from Ron and virtually _yank_ Hermione into his arms, pulling her first into a sitting position and then crushing her to his chest, wrapping his arms around her so tightly it would have unquestionably been causing her pain... if she'd been capable of feeling _anything_.

Which she wasn't.

It was exactly as Ron had said. In fact, the second Ron _had_ said it, Draco'd understood - had _known_ - that it was true.

Hermione wasn't there.

Hermione wasn't there.

Hermione wasn't _there_.

"_NO!_" The sound that was ripped out of him then was half-sob, half-shout; a raw, primal sound of utter desolation and heartbreak. "Hermione, _no!_ No, no, no, no -" he buried his face in her hair and just rocked her. He was past reason, past consolation; nearly past sanity.

And Ron spoke again.

"Malfoy." His voice was low, but compelling, and right at Draco's shoulder now. The intensity in it caught Draco's attention, even far gone as he was. "_Malfoy_. Listen to me. There's still a chance. Are you hearing me? Damn it, I didn't tell you all this just to fucking _torture_ you. There's still a chance. Just because _I_ can't go after her, doesn't mean that _no one_ can."

"What are you saying, Weasley?"

Draco's voice was like lead. It was as if, on some deep level, he already knew - just needed to hear it confirmed.

"I'm saying... the door to Between is closed from my side of the veil. From _MY_ side. I'm saying... what exactly would you be willing to sacrifice to bring Hermione back?"

Very slowly, Draco raised his head; locked his fever-bright, despairing eyes on Ron's. "Anything," he said. "I'd sacrifice _anything_... and you damn well _know_ it, too."

Ron did not reply; he didn't need to. He just stared hard at Draco... and then gave a single, grim nod.

They understood each other.

Draco's next words fell into the silence like stones.

"So this _will_ work, right? I can go in after her... if I kill _myself?_"


	25. Into The Darkness

"Close," Ron said, "but not exactly. Are you listening, Malfoy? Are you bloody well paying _attention?_ Because this is pretty damn important."

Slowly, gently, Draco laid Hermione back on the bed. He brushed her hair away from her face with his right hand; laced his left hand tightly with one of hers, where it lay so cold and pale and still on the coverlet. He wasn't looking at Ron; in fact, he was leaning so close over Hermione that their foreheads were touching.

His eyes were closed.

Even so, Ron had his full attention. "Yeah, Weasley, I'm listening." His voice was a painful whisper.

"Right then. You have to _almost_ kill yourself... or... barely kill yourself. One or the other. Do anything too... _decisive_, and you bypass the Between altogether. You simply wind up on the other side. The Between is for those whose deaths are a bit more... lingering. The only reason I went through it myself was that my soul was so tightly entwined with Harry's and... and hers. I couldn't finish the process until I knew they were okay. But that's - well, it's _really _unusual. Something like the killing curse that was cast on me should have landed me on the other side more or less instantly. Between... it's simply there to ease the passage for those who are in need of it. It's a transitional place; or at least it's meant to be, though souls _can_ become trapped there. Sad but true; it happens every day. _Stubborn_ souls like Hermione who won't let go of the one world until they're so drained of energy that they can't _reach_ the next."

"But..." Draco broke off; swallowed hard, squeezed Hermione's hand without being aware of doing so. "But if I find her there... I can give her the energy she needs to come back _here? _Like you did before?"

"Theoretically, yes. In which case, of course, you will in all likelihood no longer possess the energy required to return yourself."

"That's..." abruptly Draco straightened, turning to face Ron straight on again as he did so, meeting the ghost-boy's gaze steadily; calmly. "That's a risk I'm willing to take. Now if you would be so kind as to tell me how the _fuck_ - exactly - I'm supposed to _barely kill myself_...?"

Ron actually looked nonplussed at this. Apparently this was one aspect of the plan that he'd failed to give much thought to. "Well bugger if I know," he said. "Um... I suppose maybe poison could be good."

Draco just stared at him for a long moment out of those eerily pale, fever-bright eyes... then the explosion came. "Are you fucking _serious!?_ You don't KNOW? I only get one bloody shot at this, right!? Don't you think we should be a little more exact about this whole thing than _maybe_ and _could be?_ I will do whatever it takes, but this is _your _sodding brainchild, Weasley, so _tell me what to do!_"

"Alright look, I admit I hadn't thought through the precise method, but... poison is actually ideal, Malfoy. It can provide exactly the kind of lingering death that can land a person Between - that's what sent Hermione there the first time, remember? - and the dosage can be tweaked to suit our purposes exactly." He nodded, as if to himself. "Yeah, I really do think that's the way to go."

He gave Draco a critical once-over then, taking in the hectic, fevered flush on his cheeks; the ashen, chalky pallor everywhere else; the scarlet stains that were still slowly spreading across his shirt as he leaked blood through bandages and clothing alike. Draco's jaw was clenched to keep his teeth from rattling; chills had set in. And his eyes - they kept sliding out of focus. They were glassy with exhaustion, but... this was more than just fatigue at work. There was something else too, something that was making Draco's gaze seem... disturbingly distant somehow. Removed.

Ron frowned. "We're going to have to be very careful with the dose. Overdoing it would be a disaster... and you're halfway to dead right _now_."

"I'm fine," Draco said automatically; but even his own voice lacked conviction. He raked a hand tiredly through his silver-white hair. "Let's just... get this show on the road. Once I'm in, what do I do then?"

"Finding her will probably be the hardest part," Ron said, his voice thoughtful; pensive. "It's a big place, _huge_ - and it's dark. I mean, it's absolute blackness. The only light comes from the residual life-energy that the soul takes in there with it... and Hermione's is almost gone. So she'll be... glowing, I suppose is the word, but faintly. And getting fainter all the time. When her light goes out, that will signify that she no longer has the energy to transition forward _or_ back. She'll be invisible in the darkness - no one will ever find her then. So that's what it all amounts to; find her as quickly as possible, and pass _your_ energy - your light - to her. And of course you'll have to convince her to come back. Then, if you still have enough energy to make it back yourself, you follow. Otherwise..."

He trailed off. Shook his head. "Look, I don't want you going in there with any false hope or mistaken assumptions. The likelihood of you being able to follow her out is practically nonexistent. If you're really, _really_ lucky you might retain enough energy to transition forward, to the After. But there's also a good chance you'll simply be consigning yourself to the very fate you're saving her from. This could go badly for you, Malfoy. Could, and almost definitely will. I want to make sure we're clear on that. I'm not just telling you what the worst case scenario is. I'm telling you what I fully expect to happen. _I do not expect you to make it out of there. Ever._"

Draco gave him a long, level look out of those pale, glazed, somehow _wrong_-looking eyes; well, as level as he could manage, anyway, with the fever-chills now breaking over him like waves and an increasing sensation of floaty light-headedness, the result of either the fever, or the blood loss, or both, threatening to spill him right onto the floor.

Then he nodded and, incredibly, almost insanely, he rapped out a short burst of laughter.

"Yeah, Weasley, we're clear," he said. "Abso-fucking-lutely crystal."

A bit taken aback, Ron nonetheless managed to recover quickly. He nodded once; narrowed his eyes at Draco. "Right then. We'd better get a move on. Doesn't this hospital have an entire ward devoted to poisonings? I thought I remembered..."

"Yes," Draco said flatly. "Next floor down. They'll have a lab for brewing antidotes... and in order to brew antidotes, they'll also have original samples. I should be able to choose from any number of things." His lips twisted into a grim, utterly mirthless smile. "A goddamn poison _buffet_. So I guess... wish me luck."

"I do," Ron said simply, "because you're sure as hell gonna need it. And Malfoy," he added as Draco stood - and swayed dangerously on his feet, actually having to catch the footboard of Hermione's bed to steady himself - "remember what I said about the dosage. However much you think you need, cut it in half. I mean it. You've got a hell of a jump-start already."

"Understood." Draco's voice was barely audible now. He turned abruptly away and bent over Hermione, cupping her cheek with his hand and whispering something Ron couldn't make out into her ear. He pulled back then; just looked down at her for a silent, spiraling moment, and then dropped a brief kiss to her temple, followed by a slightly more lingering one to her lips.

Then, without another word, he was making for the door.

OOOOO

"Ronnelle? Hey... hey, love. Ronnelle."

Matt was sitting on the edge of her hospital bed, leaning close over her. He looked like absolute, bona-fide shit. He'd just managed to doze off, sprawled crosswise on the lumpy armchair, when she'd started making tiny, whimpering little sounds of distress in her sleep. That had brought him back to full awareness in a hurry, and no mistake. He'd actually halfway fallen off the chair, catching himself in a crouch and reaching for his wand before he'd been consciously aware of what he was doing; eyes scanning the dimly lit room for signs of danger.

He'd regained his bearings fairly quickly, however, and upon realizing that it was Ronnelle who was responsible for disturbing him, had crossed to the bed and sunk down on it beside her. Her hands were fisted, white-knuckled, in the bedclothes, and she was tossing her head from side to side, silvery brows knit together, obviously in the throes of a nightmare.

Looked like a bastardly one, too.

That was when he'd started trying to wake her.

"Ronnelle. Shhh. Come on... come on love, wake up. Ronnelle?"

He pushed her sweat dampened hair back, away from her face, and then left his hand there, buried in its softness on the pillow, stroking her temple gently with his thumb. That was when she gave a queer little double-hitching gasp, and opened her quartz-colored eyes.

For a moment she just stared up at him as she struggled to bring her eyes into focus. She was breathing hard, almost panting; a residual effect of the dream. He watched her fight to master herself. She gulped in a deep breath; swallowed hard.

Her lips were so dry, and she looked so... bewildered.

"Matt?" she whispered then, her expression more quizzical than anything else. "What are... you _doing _here? You know my dad will _kill_ you if he finds... finds you in my..."

Hovering over her, he watched as those remarkable, pale eyes swept the room, taking in its unfamiliar shape and size; the sterile white hospital walls and ceiling. He saw her confusion give way to comprehension, to mounting horror, and then sheer panic.

"Ronnelle, it's okay, you're -"

"_WHERE'S SETH!?_" The words were wrenched out of her in a frantic, breathless scream as she rocketed into a sitting position so suddenly that she full-on collided with him.

"Ooph!" His arms encircled her instantly, automatically, holding her against him. "Ronnelle, _stop_, it's -"

And then he realized how very still she'd gone against him. Too still. "_Ronnelle?_"

Holding her firmly by the shoulders, he pulled back a little to look at her. He wasn't prepared for what he saw. She'd gone white as a sheet; white as a _ghost_. Both her hands were clenched in the material of his shirt, and her eyes were... huge.

"Oh, it hurts," she breathed, the words barely audible... and then her eyes rolled back and she slumped, boneless, in his arms.

"Ronnelle, _no!_ No, _don't!_" He eased her back down, one of his hands splayed across her back, the other darting to catch her head, to lower it gently back to the pillow, her hair spilling through his fingers like cornsilk.

"Ronnelle." He framed her face with his hands, his fingers tangling in the impossibly soft, near-colorless hair at her temples. "Don't do this, _please_ don't do this. Damn it, you're _scaring_ me."

Her eyes blinked slowly open again; she was still as pale as death, though. "Seth," she whispered hoarsely. "Where... Matt, where -"

"Look." Exerting just a trace of pressure on her cheek, he turned her head to the side so she could see the room's second bed - and its occupant. "He's right there, sound asleep. He's just fine; you got him out. You were brilliant. What hurts?"

"Here." She dragged up an arm - it looked as if it took an immense effort - and pressed it across her midsection, high up beneath her breasts. "It feels... sharp... when I breathe, it..." she trailed off; pressed her eyes shut. There was a tiny furrow of pain between them that he would have given anything to erase.

_Here's a friendly tip from me to you - kick her in the ribs a couple of times, she gets a lot quieter. More cooperative, too, if you know what I mean_.

Luke's vile, poisonous words were suddenly right in his ear, as if they'd just been physically whispered into the room. The wave of rage that took Matt then surprised him with its intensity. For a moment he literally saw red; he had to blink, several times and hard, to bring the world back into its normal perspective once more.

And all that hard work went for nothing when, the very next second, without opening her eyes, she murmured, "he hurt me so _much_, Matt," and just like that the room was swimming with red again.

"He's dead," he told her flatly; the words out before he'd even realized the intent to speak them. Oh, bugger _all_. This wasn't how he'd planned for her to find out.

He felt her give a little start beneath him and her eyes flew open again. "_Dead?_" she demanded, her voice cracked and raw. "When... _how?_"

Matt sighed, ran a shaking hand through his hair and then scrubbed it hard down his face from forehead to chin. It was a world-weary gesture that was far too old for his fourteen years. "Your, um... your dad and I went after him. Your dad killed him."

"My dad... _killed_ somebody?" The shock in her voice was a nearly tangible thing.

"Yeah," Matt said with sudden fierceness, "and if he hadn't, I would have!" He looked away, scowling furiously at the wall.

'Matt." His name was little more than an exhalation, but it managed to recapture all of his attention.

Her eyes were heavy-lidded now; he realized that she was bout to be pulled back under. That was for the best. She desperately needed to rest and heal.

"I'm glad you didn't do it," she whispered. "You're not... meant to be a killer."

_I don't WANT a killer for my daughter. That's not who Ronnelle needs you to be._

Now it was _Draco's_ voice that echoed in his head. How well the man knew his child, it seemed.

Matt tried for a smile with only partial success. Leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. "I love you 'Nell," he whispered, but when he pulled back a second later he saw that she was already gone again.

There was no telling whether she'd heard him or not.

OOOOO

Snape, down at the end of the hall with Harry, almost missed seeing Draco go by.

They were unlikely companions, Harry and Snape, but they'd stuck fairly close to each other since the former's exhausted wife had taken the two youngest Potter children home, and the latter had been denied entrance to Hermione's room.

There was some small comfort; some solace to be had in one another's company, after all. It beat all hell out of being alone.

Harry, as grim-faced as Snape had ever seen him, was currently waiting for a team of four Aurors to show up from the Ministry so he could lead them back to the manor in order to process the scene and collect Luke and Narcissa's bodies. He'd initially contacted the Ministry _hours_ ago, before he'd even figured out where it was that Draco and Matt must have gone; back when he and Snape had first arrived at the hospital with Hermione, Ronnelle and Seth.

He'd been upset at the Aurors' failure to arrive by the time he and Snape had departed for the manor in search of Draco and Matt – though that hadn't stopped him once he'd realized where his son in all likelihood _was_. At that point wild _thestrals_ could not have kept him away. But he _had_ been frustrated by their tardiness.

Now he was gone well past frustration. He was abso-bloody-lutely _livid_. Pacing in a tight circle, alternately clenching his hands in his hair and throwing them toward the ceiling, ranting to himself about _bloody unprofessional idiots with their heads jammed so far up their own worthless, bureaucratic arses they wouldn't know a REAL goddamn emergency if it bit them square in the -_

He'd been going on in this vein for quite a while; Snape had actually begun to largely tune him out, to the point where he was catching snippets, at best. Very _colorful_ snippets, to be sure, but nothing of any real substance. His attention had begun to wander.

And that was when he noticed Draco heading down the corridor.

He didn't know why such an intense wave of foreboding hit him in that instant, but he was not a man to ignore his instincts. And right now his instincts were screaming at him to follow the silver-haired man who was moving down the hallway as if in a trance.

"Potter, one moment," Snape said, raising a distracted finger in Harry's direction. Harry simply continued to pace and mutter, then abruptly punched the wall with his right hand while raking the left through his hair for the thousandth time in about ten minutes. He seemed to have completely lost awareness of Snape's presence at all.

Deciding he wouldn't even be missed, Snape took off after Draco.

He lost him for a moment in the lift though, and that probably changed everything.

OOOOO

Draco found the magical poisonings ward without too much difficulty, and threw a quick, whispered Disillusionment charm over himself, significantly reducing the odds that he would be noticed or stopped. Only someone who was actively seeking him could find him now. It didn't take him long to locate the antidote lab, either; and it was empty. Another stroke of luck. Slipping inside, he shut the door soundlessly behind him.

It was just as he had said, too; a veritable poison buffet.

He just stood there for a moment, his eyes sweeping the dozens - no, _hundreds_ - of neatly organized and labeled vials, taking in his nearly infinite options, processing.

Just a moment, that was all; but that, too, probably changed everything. Unbeknownst to Draco, it gave Snape an opportunity to make up at least a little of the time he'd lost in the lift.

Draco had a little bit of trouble pulling himself together; everything seemed surreal. He felt floaty and barely tethered to himself at all; and if his hold on his _body_ was tenuous, his hold on his mind was even more so.

His thoughts wanted to fly in a thousand directions at once, but they all led back to the same place in the end; Hermione.

Just Hermione.

_He saw the bushy haired, know-it-all mudblood that he'd loved to hate his first few years at Hogwarts_.

_Saw her studying by wandlight that night in the library when he'd tripped over her god-bloody-_damn_ school bag, and everything had started to change_.

_Saw Hermione lying as pale and still as death in the Hogwarts infirmary after her brutal attack in the bowels of the school, not looking like herself at all with her hair in two neat plaits instead of rumpled, the way it should have been all over the white hospital pillow_.

_Hermione in his arms as they danced together, both in white, infirmary-issue pajamas, on the night of his Resorting; the expression on her face when he'd first asked her to be his and she'd replied yes, yes, a thousand times yes!_

_Hermione in their seventh year of school, still so broken and yet so brave, determinedly fighting to put her attack behind her, to regain some sense of normalcy, of confidence, of self worth. Some sense of peace._

_Hermione beneath him, Hermione _glorious_, splayed out on the impossibly soft, sumptuous bed in her Head Girl room; love and trust shining from her eyes as he'd proved to her, at long last, that yes, _YES it could be good_._

_Hermione as he'd seen her the night his father had kidnapped her from Hogwarts; the lost, bewildered, resigned expression on her face as Lucius' arms had closed around her from behind and he'd been forced to watch helplessly, kept at bay by his father's magic_...

_And Hermione as she had appeared the next time he'd seen her, following her brutal captivity in Malfoy Manor - the worst sight he'd ever seen. A bloody wreck, clinging to life by a thread_.

_Hermione sleeping in his arms later that year, once the hideous freshness of the trauma she'd suffered at Lucius' hands had begun to fade; she'd started to look peaceful in sleep again, which was something - but she'd still been as likely as not to wake screaming_.

_Hermione on their wedding day, walking on a carpet of rose petals, her dress floating out behind her in the breeze_...

_And finally, finally, over the coming months and years, letting go of the trauma and horror of the past, letting it fall away from her little by little, relaxing and settling into adult life with him. A good life_.

_Merlin, it had been_ a good life.

_Hermione swelling in pregnancy, first with Ronnelle and then with Seth, radiating that "expectant mother glow" - a heady combination of perfect contentment and blissful anticipation that Draco had heard spoken about in the past, but had never really understood until he witnessed it firsthand_...

_Hermione on some long-ago family holiday to the beach, on her knees in the sand building castles with the children, her laughter washing over him like the sea, looking every inch the devoted mummy and yet, somehow at the same time driving him absolutely _wild_ with lust - something about that little two-piece swimsuit she'd been wearing, and the way her whole body had been finely dusted with soft, white sand_.

_Hermione two Christmases ago, her face alight as she unwrapped her gift from him to discover a rare and ancient first-edition book on wizarding history in the middle ages that she'd been searching for, fruitlessly, for years - and tucked carefully within it, a five thousand galleon sapphire pendant he'd had custom made for her (and where was the sense in kidding himself? She'd been _way_ more excited by the book.)_

_Hermione surprising him with breakfast in bed... reading Ronnelle story after story after _story _on a rainy day... bandaging an ugly scrape on Seth's knee... preparing care packages to send to the children by owl post while they were at Hogwarts - even though she worked there - in order to give them the unexpected joy of receiving something special through the post._

_Hermione doing a million commonplace, ordinary things; the things that made up the fabric of his life_.

_Hermione in periwinkle dress robes, looking too beautiful to be real. Hermione in her plain and sensible Hogwarts robes with her hair pulled up and back, late for work but looking so irresistibly prim and proper that he'd had no choice - no choice at all - but to pull her bodily back into the bedroom and ravish her for well over an hour - until she'd given up and just owled in sick, and allowed him to ravish her for the rest of the _day.

_Hermione in tatty old gardening clothes. Hermione in nothing but an oversized towel. Hermione in nothing at _all.

_And her face, always her face, so small below him but so full of love and joy, watching him soar above her on his broomstick as he'd played Quidditch with the children; she'd never had the least bit of interest in joining them in the sky, but she'd always been there to watch, to cheer, to support, to love. She'd always, always, _always_ been there_.

(At this point, unbeknownst to him on any conscious level, the tears began.)

_And then Hermione just a few short weeks ago – God, was that really all it had been? - looking pale and nearly nauseous as she'd taken in the sight of Luke for the first time, passed out on their spare bed. Hermione sitting so anguished and stricken beside Seth's hospital bed as he'd stormed out and slammed the door behind him, cutting off what she'd been trying to say. Hermione looking to be in very real danger of falling to her knees when he'd told her in the kitchen (just hours ago, how could that be?) that she needn't worry; she wouldn't have to be a Malfoy for very much longer_.

_Hermione as she had looked when he'd seen her through the wards - (wards placed over his home by someone other than himself; an interloper, an impostor of nearly impossible evil) - ashen, exhausted and even, truth be told, a little unbalanced; just before she'd turned away from him, from the sound his frantic pleas, and vanished into the house_.

_And of course Hermione lying on the grass after he'd carried her out, rag-doll limp and lifeless, looking for all the world as if she'd been dipped in blood up to her waist and Potter's voice in his ear telling him that she was losing her baby, losing her baby, losing her BABY._..

God, it was nearly too much to bear.

He swallowed hard; convulsively. Shook his head to clear it; scanned the room at a glance, searching out, in a matter of seconds, the poison that was likeliest to suit his needs. "I'm coming, Bookworm," he muttered aloud, his voice like sandpaper; like gravel. "Just hold on, okay? I'm coming for you."

He grabbed the vial he needed off a shelf, distantly surprised by how hard his hand was shaking - _Weasley's right, I can't overdo it. I'm already close, so close_ - and uncorked it, a brusque, almost angry movement, with his teeth. And then -

And then it was simply gone.

His ability to process his surroundings was compromised to such an extent by this time that to Draco, it actually seemed that the little bottle wrenched itself out of his hand _first_ - and only _then_ did he hear Snape's voice from the doorway growling "_Accio _vial!"

The older man sounded slightly winded - and just about mad enough to spit nails.

Draco spun toward him - too quickly, as it turned out. He'd been lightheaded already and now an immense wave of vertigo crashed over him. His knees buckled and he fell - but managed, barely, to catch himself on the edge of a nearby counter. Fighting to remain even partially upright, he blinked hard. His vision was so far out of focus by now it was ridiculous. Which of the three murderously angry Snapes that were currently shimmering before him like so many heat mirages was the real one?

Then his mentor spoke and he was able, finally, to zero in on the source of the voice. Which was barely recognizable, so choked was it with rage. He was nearly panting with it.

"What - in the holy _HELL_ - do you think - you are _doing!?_"

Draco swallowed hard. "I have to, Severus. It's the only way -"

"_FUCK that_," Snape cup him off, his voice shaking, "this is _never_ the way! You think I haven't thought about it a time or two myself!? But Draco - Jesus fucking _Christ_ - you have _children!_ And the reality is, you are very likely all they have left. How could you be this fucking _selfish!?_ This is _NOT THE WAY!_"

Draco shook his head; pressed his eyes shut. "No," he said. His voice, he realized with a distant, dim sort of surprise, was barely audible. "You don't understand. Hermione, she's... Seth and Ronnelle don't need _me_, I'm the one who did this to them! They need _her,_ and..." God, he wasn't getting this across at all. He was too far gone. He was about to pass out, and then any hope would be lost. He shook his head again, harder this time, in frustration. "Look, there's no _time_ for this! Will you just -"

"What? Give it back to you?" Snape's voice was still angry, but tinged now with bitterness and a faint but unmistakable trace of disgust as well. "You're out of your goddamn mind."

"Severus." It was incredible, really, the amount of despair Draco managed to put into that single word. He drew in breath to say more, but stopped at the expression on Snape's face; it had gone as flat as his voice. There would be no getting through.

And he was out of time.

"Fine," he whispered. "Fine then. Fine." He thought about feeling behind him on the counter - he knew there were other vials, dozens of them, all within easy reach. But grabbing something unseen and gulping it at random was not the solution. Not when he had to be so very careful about dosage and desired effect.

His plan was _completely_ bollixed to hell.

He'd have to do something else.

That was when his legs really did give out, spilling him unceremoniously to the floor. He landed on his knees first, then listed backward and to the side, fetching up on his arse with his back wedged against the bank of cabinets that ran beneath the countertop.

"Draco! God_damn_ it, boy, what -"

Snape tried to lunge for him, but with no success. Even though he'd let his head fall forward, into his right hand, Draco now raised his left and extended it, palm out, toward the older man. It was a gesture that was weary beyond belief - but also the unmistakable, age-old gesture for _Stop_.

And a pulse of magic accompanied it, halting the potions master in his tracks.

Slowly, tiredly, Draco raised his pale eyes to meet the other man's dark ones, which were, by now, practically shooting off sparks of rage. Then Draco's eyes dropped to the vial clutched in Snape's hand.

This time, though, it was _Snape_ who acted with lightning speed. "Like _hell_ you do," he growled, rightly guessing Draco's intent to summon the little bottle straight _back_ again, pitting his own magic directly against Snape's if necessary. And considering the enormous breadth of his ability, Draco had a very good chance of coming out on top, even in his current, desperately weakened state.

And they both knew it.

So just as Draco's eyes narrowed, Snape gave what could only be described as a veritable _snarl_, and smashed the bottle into the doorframe beside him, shattering it; spilling the dark orange liquid down the wall, and driving a number of vicious little glass shards into his own hand for his trouble.

More than worth it, if that was what it took to save Draco from this _madness_ that had seized him.

For just a heartbeat's worth of time Draco's mouth actually fell open - in that instant, he looked as stricken as a child. Then he clenched his jaw shut again, gritted his teeth, and matched Snape glare for glare as he tried to think through what to do next.

He could probably just _Avada_ himself, as he'd planned to do all those years ago when he'd thought Hermione was dead (_thought? She WAS dead_) and lost to him forever. But that was exactly the type of death Ron had warned against; it would not give him the more... gradual transition that the ghost-boy had seemed to think so necessary for success. What else, on such short notice and among such limited options, could _do_ that?

The answer, when it came, was stunning in its simplicity. Of _course_. If he'd thought of it earlier, he could have done it right back in Hermione's _room_. Shit.

_Well_, he thought grimly, _there's no time like the present_.

And that was it. No hesitation; no second thoughts at all. Just a passing sense of frustration that he hadn't hit upon it sooner.

OOOOO

Snape, still held at bay by Draco's unspoken magic, watched his former pupil's head fall back against the cabinet bank behind him, tilting upward toward the ceiling just as it had when he'd been seated in a similar fashion on floor outside Hermione's room. Watched Draco's eyes fall shut and thought, for just the briefest moment of grateful relief, that it was over; that Draco had finally succumbed to his physical, mental and emotional exhaustion. If the boy passed out, so be it; in fact, it was probably for the best. The restraining magic that Draco was employing against him would fail, and Snape hardly knew whether, at that point, he would embrace the stubborn imbecile... or _shake_ him until his teeth rattled.

And then he noticed that Draco's lips were moving. Soundlessly, barely, but they were moving.

The immensity of horror that washed over him in that instant was as vivid, primal and complete as the sudden rush of blood from Draco's wrists - because that was what the words of his whispered spell had done; opened both of them at once.

Blood loss - the perfect solution as far as Draco was concerned. He would fade quickly - especially considering how much he'd already lost in his confrontation with Luke - but it would be an incremental process nonetheless. Fade was the key word; nothing abrupt like the flick of a wand or the recitation of the killing curse; no, he would _sink_ into nothingness... and God willing, into the Between.

Snape was shouting at him in a voice that was breaking with panic, but it all seemed very distant now and Draco couldn't make out the words. With a supreme effort, he forced his eyes open again, looking in that moment like a child fighting sleep; tried to fix them on the older man's face, but found himself hopelessly distracted. His arms felt warm and wet and very, very heavy. And there was... _red_... a lot of red. Everywhere.

Besides, trying to focus his vision on anything more distant that his own fingertips was, he dimly realized, a doomed enterprise. He was simply too far gone.

He still had his left hand extended toward Snape, though it was shaking badly. The blood was running down his forearm to drip off his elbow onto the floor in a steady, pattering, scarlet rain.

He wouldn't be able to keep Snape at a distance much longer, but that was okay. He didn't think he _needed_ very much longer. He was going under now for sure, his eyes dragging themselves shut. Still he kept his arm flung out, forcing the older man to keep his distance. The magic was weakening, though; Snape had hunched his shoulders and managed to fight forward first one step, then another, looking as though he were walking into some invisible, gale-force wind.

From where he was struggling, an inch at a time, to reach the dying (_NO! Not dying! Not Draco! Not POSSIBLE! No no no no no_) man, Snape watched, through a lens of sheer terror, as Draco's chest heaved, pulling in a single deep, ragged breath - Draco's body was young and strong, after all, and despite everything it had just been through, and despite Draco's intentions even now, it wanted to _live_ - then a brutal shudder ripped its way across his frame, causing his pale eyes to fly open one last time. They were glazed over; completely without focus this time.

And then, as Snape was forced to watch helplessly, out of his mind with anger, disbelief, frustration and fear, those smoke-colored eyes drifted slowly shut again; Draco's left hand fell to the floor to land in a tacky, crimson puddle of blood, and his whole body sagged where it was braced against the cabinets, utterly lifeless –

As Snape, fully released from the hold of Draco's magic at last, hurled himself to the floor beside him, screaming, screaming, _screaming_ his name.


	26. And Back to the Beginning

The first thing Draco became conscious of was rolling onto his side. And that seemed wrong, somehow. Rolling onto his side implied that he'd been lying on his back, and he had no recollection of having lain down at all; the last thing he remembered, he'd been sitting on the floor in the St. Mungo's poison lab, holding Snape off while... while he...

"Hermione!"

His eyes flew open and her name was ripped from him as everything came back in a rush, and then he was pushing himself up, scrambling to his feet so fast that he overbalanced and nearly collapsed again. Staggering, he managed to stay upright - barely - and gulped in a few deep breaths, steadying himself.

Then he turned in a full circle, raising both hands as he did so to clench in his pale hair; a completely unconscious gesture that spoke volumes about just how utterly _overwhelmed_ he was in that moment.

Because there was nothing. No matter where he looked, there was nothing at all.

_It's a big place, _huge_ - and it's dark. I mean, it's absolute blackness_.

That's what Ron had said, and Ron hadn't been exaggerating. He himself was putting off a faint yet steady glow, but other than that there was _nothing_ but blackness, up, down, and in every direction, for as far as Draco could see. Or... _couldn't_ see, to be more accurate. And it was so _quiet_ - so utterly and profoundly silent that he could almost _hear_ the lack of sound.

If that made any sense at all. Which it didn't. It was true, though, nevertheless.

How in God's _name_ was he supposed to find Hermione in here? How did he even _begin?_

It was... Merlin, it was too much. He didn't even know where to start.

It was Snape's voice he heard in his mind then - he knew that in reality it was merely his own inner monologue he was listening to, but for whatever reason, his psyche decided to present it to him in his mentor's well-known dry, angry tones.

And that was probably a stroke of subconscious genius, because it certainly did manage to galvanize him into action.

_Get a hold of yourself, Malfoy. You're wasting precious time. Every second you let pass while you stand here panicking like a first-year, could be the _last _second before her light goes out. You don't have _time _for self-pity, you don't have _time_ to feel overwhelmed. So just pull it together, God-fucking-_damn_ it. Pull it together and do SOMETHING - _anything's_ better than just standing here while her time runs down. _

_So just put one foot in front of the other, and fucking... WALK._

So he did. He put one foot in front of the other and began to walk through the blackness.

OOOOO

Time had no meaning, no relevance where he was. He couldn't have said whether he walked for an hour, or a day, or a year, or a century. Distance was just as much a non-entity. No _wonder_ people got hopelessly lost in here. How in the hell was he supposed to find Hermione? How in the hell was he supposed to find _anything?_

There was nothing to do but keep moving, and try to keep thoughts and images of his wife at the forefront of his mind. His hope was that doing this would allow him to... to _channel_ her, somehow; to call on the bond between them. To trust in it to guide his feet.

It was hard, though, _very_ hard, not to give in to despair.

Every time his grief and guilt threatened to swamp him, he'd force himself to stop, take a couple of deep breaths (_and why was he breathing in here at all? Was it necessary anymore, or was it merely habit? Could he stop if wanted, and still be just fine? He rather thought so..._) and focus on something simple yet powerful.

_How she smelled after a shower._

_The way her hair tickled his nose in bed at night._

_The sound of her voice singing lullabies to Seth._

_The perfect way she fit in his arms, like they were two pieces of a puzzle clicking together._

_The radiance of her smile._

Then, once he was grounded and focused and had her fixed clearly in his mind again, he'd swallow hard, square his shoulders, and walk on.

There were times he thought he caught glimmers, just dim flickers of light far off in the darkness, almost at the periphery of his vision.

He always called her name when this happened, but no one ever answered. In fact, on that whole lonely trek he never heard anyone speak at all.

He heard screaming once, though - agonized, _bloodcurdling_ screams that made his heart leap into his throat and his stomach knot into a cold, hard little ball. It really was horrific, that screaming. Froze him in place for a moment or two. But it cut off as abruptly as it began and though it made him shudder to think what could have caused screaming like that - and shudder even _harder_ to imagine what could have silenced it with such grim finality, he knew with absolute certainty that it hadn't been Hermione, because the sad truth was that he _recognized _her screams. Knew them intimately in fact, having been woken by them hundreds of times in the past.

And so he was able to master himself fairly quickly, and walk on.

At one point he tripped over something in the darkness; a panic-inducingly _human_ shaped something that gasped and scuttled away; staying, from the sound of it, close to the ground. And no matter how hard Draco stared in the direction it went, he couldn't see a thing. It had to be what Ron had warned him of; some lost soul whose light had gone utterly and irrevocably out.

It was a horrific moment. He stood frozen in place, feeling as if a bucket of ice water had just been upended over him, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as sick chills raced up and down his spine. It occurred to him, distantly, that he was getting an awful lot of feedback from a body he had supposedly left behind in a puddle of blood on the hospital floor. But that was neither here nor there.

Finally, he managed to unstick his throat. "Hermione?" he croaked, the palms of his hands breaking out in a clammy sweat as he fought to control his breathing and as he prayed, begged, _pleaded_ with every deity he knew - _Please don't let it be her. Please oh please, because that would mean I'm too late, that she's too far gone and anything, ANYTHING but that, don't let it be her, please God please_.

There was no answer; neither from God nor from the... _creature_ in the blackness. Just that soft yet horrifically creepy scuttling sound as it moved away from him, off through the dark.

For a moment he debated following it, but decided against it. It wasn't Hermione. It _couldn't_ be Hermione because... because that was simply not an acceptable outcome to all this. That could not be Hermione's fate. Couldn't be. He would not allow it.

So once again he asserted control over himself - though not without considerable difficulty this time - and moved on, calling up a whole new set of images as he went - _Hermione curled up in front of the fire with a book... baking cookies with the children... straddling him in bed, her hair tumbling down around both of them in a dark, heavy curtain as they moved in sync, fused together, pursuing a mutual, earth-shattering pleasure_ - counting on the vibrancy of these impressions to somehow guide him to her.

An indeterminate amount of time later, he heard the crying.

And knew in a second, knew completely, to the very foundation of his soul, that he had found her.

_He had found her_.

OOOOO

The sound was faint and distant at first, but almost as soon as he became aware of it, it seemed to gain in volume and... _immediacy_... not as if she were getting closer, but as if the sound were coming to him broadcast over the wireless, and the signal was somehow gaining strength.

"Hermione!" he shouted, turning in place, trying to zero in on the exact source. He narrowed his eyes, fighting to see anything, anything other than the eternal, impenetrable blackness of this place. His voice was rough with emotion. "_Hermione!_ Where are you, can you come toward my voice?"

He was rewarded with a shuddery, hiccuping gasp - she'd heard him. But that was the only answer he received, followed by a few seconds of silence; and then the crying resumed - but quieter this time, as if she were attempting to muffle it.

Frustration surged through him. "Damn it, Hermione don't _do_ this! Don't do this, don't, there isn't _TIME!_"

Continued sobbing was the only response he got. Merlin, he wanted to _hit_ something in that moment... but there was nothing there. So he stood very still, pouring all of his focus and concentration into pinpointing her location as his mind screamed frantically, _there's no time, no time, no time, no TIME!_

Then, choosing what he felt to be the likeliest direction, he virtually_ launched_ himself into a flat-out run.

There was a while - a terrifyingly long while, actually - where he thought he must have gone the wrong way. Those horrible, gut-wrenching, heartbreaking sobs seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, and he was running, running, _running_ through the dark, but couldn't see a trace of her anywhere. The light she put off would be dim, Ron had warned him - but surely after running this long he should see _something_, some flicker at least?

_Don't let me have gone the wrong way. Don't let her light have gone out. Let me find her, please God, please please please_...

And then, as if in direct answer to this frantic prayer, he caught in the distance just the faintest, smallest glimmer of illumination.

"Hermione!" Her name was ripped from his throat almost against his will; he hadn't been planning to call out again, not wanting to spook her or scare her off. The thought of her scuttling away from him into the black emptiness of this place like that _thing_ he had tripped over was nearly too much to contemplate and still retain his hold on sanity.

A hold that he felt was tenuous enough already.

So he hadn't intended to shout, but once he caught sight of her it was over; he was no longer master of himself at all. All that mattered to him in that moment was reaching her, pulling her into his arms, crushing her to his chest and never, ever _ever _letting her go.

Not until it was time to send her back to her body, at any rate; back to Seth and Ronnelle, who needed their mother _worlds_ more than they'd _ever _need him.

That was what he was thinking, anyway, in the seconds before he reached her.

But then he did reach her, and everything changed.

Nothing - _nothing_ - could have prepared him for what he saw when he skidded to a halt in front of her.

It left him... beyond words.

He just stood there, unsteady on his feet, all thoughts of embracing her gone in that moment, engulfed by the sheer force of _shock_ that was sending him reeling.

It wasn't that he didn't recognize the slim, bushy-haired girl in the Hogwarts school uniform. No, his recognition was simple and profound; bone-deep, despite the fact that she was folded in on herself, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees and her face buried in her pleated skirt while she sobbed as though her heart would break.

He _recognized_ her, yes - beyond the shadow of a doubt, it was Hermione.

Just not a Hermione he had seen for twenty years.

Merlin... why hadn't Ron_ prepared_ him for something like this!

The Hermione he was looking at was Ronnelle's age, at most - she couldn't possibly have been more than fifteen years old.

"Oh my... God," he managed to croak at last.

And her head jerked up, revealing a face that was pale, tear-streaked, incredibly vulnerable... and impossibly, _mind_-bogglingly young.

OOOOO

They stared at each other, speechless, for several seconds - then her eyes, which had widened in stunned recognition upon first seeing him, narrowed to furious slits. "Malfoy," she spat, scrubbing one hand angrily, defensively, across her reddened, streaming eyes, "What are _you_ doing here? The universe must be mocking me for thinking that things couldn't possibly get any worse."

He opened his mouth; tried to speak; failed. Swallowed convulsively. Cleared his throat. Tried again.

"Hermione." His voice was little more than a hoarse rasp. "Are you -"

But she cut him off. "Don't call me that!" Her voice was shrill, nearly hysterical. "What makes you think you have _any right _to call me that! Get _out _of here, Malfoy! Things were bad enough without you!" She dropped her head back to her knees and hugged herself even tighter. She was shivering, he saw, the whole slim length of her as if with cold; even though to him, the atmosphere felt neither warm nor cool.

And the shivers only served as a backdrop against which the larger shudders, caused by the sobs that continued to wrack her despite her best efforts to fight them off, _really_ stood out.

It was an utterly heartbreaking sight.

And he was completely at a loss.

A teenaged Hermione - and a pre-_library_-encounter teenaged Hermione, apparently - one who had never so much as_ begun_ to thaw toward him, who harbored nothing toward him at _all _except enmity and resentment; how in the _hell_ was he supposed to deal with _this!_?

"Fuck," he breathed, suddenly dizzy, head still swimming with shock, "fuck _me_," and then, just as in the St. Mungo's poison lab, his legs went out from under him and he sat down, hard.

Lifting her head again, Hermione shot him a quick but murderous glare, then scooted backward several feet, away from him, on her bum. "I said leave me _alone! _Please, I -" and her face was already crumpling again, her breaths piling one on top of another - "I can't..._ deal_ with you right now, I... I can't _defend_ myself, I don't have the energy. _Please_, Malfoy, oh God please just go _away!_"

"I..." Draco was in a daze; completely out of his depth and just..._ lost_. It showed in his voice. "I don't think I can."

She just stared at him for a moment... then groaned and dropped her face into her hands.

They lapsed into silence for a long time.

OOOOO

At some point, Draco had allowed himself to flop onto his back. He was staring straight upward, unseeingly into nothingness, trying to wrap his mind around the utter bizarreness of the situation and formulate a plan for what to do next, when Hermione, quite abruptly and without making a sound or even so much as glancing in his direction, unfolded herself to her feet and began to walk.

Away from him.

Panic hit him like a wave and his heart skipped a beat... then started thudding _triple_-time.

"Wait!" He scrambled to his own feet, with considerably less grace than _she_ had demonstrated. "_Wait! _ Herm - uh, _Granger!_ Stop!"

She didn't stop, though; didn't so much as falter. Didn't look back or answer him, either. He raked a hand through his hair, which glittered like starlight in this place; swore colorfully under his breath, and then jogged after her. Catching her up a few seconds later, he fell into step. "Will you just -"

"Sod off, Malfoy." Her voice was inflectionless. Like lead.

"I already told you, I _can't_." Some of his own frustration was seeping into his words.

She spun to face him, eyes bright with unspilled tears. "Why not? And why _you!_ If I had to meet someone here, why does it have to be you? Out of every... everyone I know... it's _YOU!_ I just don't... un...under...sta-hand what I'm being puh...huh...hunished for!"

She was breaking down again and Draco thought sickly, _Me. You're being punished for being loved by _me_. Oh God, Bookworm, I'm so sorry. I don't know how to make this right but I will find a way. I'm so, so sorry. _

But his instincts were telling him to play along with her delusion that they were teenaged Hogwarts enemies, at least for the time being, and his instincts were usually good. They had failed him _spectacularly_ where Luke had been concerned but usually, usually they were good.

So what he said aloud was, "look, Granger, I don't know any more about it than you do, but I have to believe we've been thrown together like this for a reason. And I'm not going to leave you alone in here, like it or not. So just wrap your bushy little head around that fact, and get over it. Where are you _going_, anyway?"

"I -" she turned her back on him; swiped at her eyes again. "I don't know. I think I've lost something, but I can't remember what. I can't..." She wrapped her arms tightly around her midsection, hugging herself. "I just feel so... so _stupid_ right now! And so helpless. There's something I've lost, but I don't know what it is. There's something I need to remember, but I just _can't!_ The harder I try to, the more... the more elusive it becomes. _God_, I just... everyone thinks I'm so bright, everyone has such high expectations of me, but I'm nothing special, I'm nothing at _all_. I'm just plain, useless Hermione. But _you_ know that, don't you? You've seen through me from the start. You're _right _about me, Malfoy, when you call me those names; that's what hurts the most, you've been right about me all _along_. I don't _belong _here, I never have. I was meant to grow up and be... I don't know, an _accountant_ or something. I shouldn't ever have come to Hogwarts, I wish I'd never _seen_ that stupid owl! Your world has nothing to offer me, and I have _less _than nothing to offer it. I just... I just..."

"Granger... _what!_ No!" he stammered, barely able to make his voice work as his heart tried to rip itself to shreds inside of him. Could she really _think_ that about herself? _Truly?_

"Oh, don't _patronize_ me, Malfoy!" Looking back at him over her shoulder, her eyes were now positively blazing... and she would almost have sounded fierce, had she not been choking on tears. "Don't you dare! What's _wrong_ with you, anyway? Following me around, calling me Hermione - where the hell do you get off! I always assumed you thought my first name was _Stupid_, my middle name was _Mudblood_, and my last name was _Bint_. And I don't... know what... what kind of game you... _oh!_"

Right in the middle of what was promising to become quite a heated little tirade she broke off with a gasp, both of her hands flying to clamp over her stomach protectively (apparently he wasn't the only one still receiving feedback from his abandoned body) - then her legs buckled, spilling her to her knees.

"_Hermione - !_" Utterly panicked in that moment, he forgot all about calling her Granger. He hurled himself to his knees beside her, grabbing her by the shoulders and forcing her to look up at him.

She was chewing on her bottom lip, and her eyes were positively _huge_. The faint aura of light she was putting off flickered then, like a candle flame in a gust of wind, and he almost lost his mind with fear.

"My stomach hurts," she said weakly. "I think it has to do with what I've lost, what I'm looking for, but I just..." she shook her head. A single, errant tear spilled down her face. "I just can't... make the pieces... _fit_. God, Malfoy, what's wrong with me? And why the _hell_ are you acting like you even care!" She wrenched herself backward, out of his grasp, and gave a bitter little snort. "You must be Confunded or something."

"Yeah, something," Draco muttered distractedly, his mind racing. Ron had said that he'd have to persuade her to take his energy and use it to go back... but Merlin, he didn't think he had time! He wasn't sure he had time to so much as convince her that he wasn't some arrogant fifteen-year-old _prick_ that got his kicks out of calling her names and mocking the size her front teeth... _let alone_ any of the rest of it!

Fuck, _fuck, FUCK_. Could he somehow _force_ his energy, his light, onto her? He was almost desperate enough to try... but what if it didn't _work?_ Or, almost worse, what if it _did_ work but she refused to make use of the gift he thrust upon her against her will?

Those were not acceptable outcomes. The risk was too great. And yet... _God_... he had to do _something_. What in the hell was he gonna _do?_

" - really here."

"Wait, what...?" The sound of her voice distracted him. _What_ had she been saying?

"I said, you're lying like usual, Malfoy! I can see it all over your pointy face! I think you know _exactly_ why you're here. And since you're being so uncharacteristically... _decent_ all of a sudden, how about enlightening _me?_"

He opened his mouth; shut it again. He wanted so desperately just to pour everything out... but he couldn't. It would do more harm than good, drastically more harm. It was killing him, _killing_ him... but he had to take it slow.

And pray, pray with every fiber of his soul, that there would be enough time.

He rocked back onto his heels and tried to school his expression into one of relative indifference. "I'm not keeping any massive, earth-shattering secrets from you, Granger," he lied - and pulled it off relatively smoothly, to boot. "But I suppose you're right that I have... an _inkling_ of what I'm doing here, at least. I, uh..." he paused, frowned, raked a hand through his hair - "well, I'm looking for something, too. Something I've lost. Something... valuable."

"Oh, come off it, Malfoy!" Her response was instant and her tone was biting. "You know I actually _believed_ you for a moment, actually thought you might have an answer - the more fool me, right? As if you'd ever bother looking for _anything_ you lost - you of _all_ people. When all you have to do is owl daddy, and he'll send you a dozen more just like it, I'm sure. God, why do I even bother talking to you? Just go back to your mansion and your servants and your perfect, privileged, pureblood life and leave me _alone!_"

Draco's jaw actually dropped a little and for the space of several seconds he was left completely speechless, her words hurt so badly.

It showed on his face, too - showed clear as day. She'd been in the act of turning away again, but in that moment her eyes narrowed and she leveled him with a piercingly intense, scrutinizing gaze. His first thought was, _There it is, I _know_ that look; it's a little of my own Hermione back! _and the relief was so intense that it nearly killed the pain she'd just caused him. Nearly.

It was followed quickly by another thought, however; this one couched once again in Snape's icy tone. _Fifteen-year-old Granger is not accustomed to seeing a Draco Malfoy who wears his heart on his sleeve! Get your emotions under control, you goddamned, bleeding IDIOT!_

So he slammed his defenses into place - even after years of relative disuse they were right there, _always_ right there, just beneath the surface and ready to be called upon in time of need. He smoothed his face into a near-perfect mask of nonchalance, but in _her_ expression he could see that he was already just a tad bit too late.

She dropped her eyes down, away from him.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy." Her voice was barely audible, quiet and leaden; she was speaking through lips that hardly moved. "That was a rotten thing to say. I don't... know what's happening to me, I really don't. I'm not _like_ this, usually, so... so antagonistic and..._ bitter_. I promise, I'm _not_. Ask Harry, or Ron... anyone who really knows me."

_Anyone who really knows me._

And another little piece of his heart shattered, with a desolate, howling, near-_physical_ sort of anguish.

"Granger... I..." he stopped. Swallowed. Fought hard to regain just a little bit of composure.

Failed.

"I believe you," he finally croaked.

She raised her tear-bright eyes back to him, then. "I'm glad," she said, her voice a rough whisper, "because it's true."

They lapsed into silence for several moments, then she swept him with a quick, appraising look, top to bottom, and Draco (who of course knew her better than anyone else on earth, whether_ she_ was aware of that fact or not) just had time to think, _she's about to change the subject; try to lighten the mood_, when she said,

"What are you _wearing_, anyway, Malfoy? Did you escape from the infirmary or something?"

He realized he'd never really given any thought to his own appearance at all; glancing down he saw that, though the bloodstains had disappeared, he _was_ still in the white tee-shirt and unmistakably hospitalish pale blue pajama bottoms that he'd been wearing when...

"Yeah that's right," he said. "I, uh... had an incident in the potions lab." Which was of course, true enough... how she chose to _interpret_ it was entirely up to her.

"Hm." She laid her head back on her knees, but this time kept her face turned toward his. "I think I should go to the infirmary too. I don't feel well at _all_."

"Granger -"

"So what is it?" she cut him off. "What is this mystery item you've lost, that has you sneaking out of the infirmary and risking Pomfrey's wrath? She won't go easy on you if she finds out, you know - just ask Harry. It isn't pretty."

"Oh... well..." he was flustered all over again. Christ Jesus, he might as well _be_ a fifteen-year-old kid, he was so goddamned tongue-tied! "It's uh... it's uh... Oh, what the fuck." He pressed his eyes briefly shut. "It's a person, Granger, it's a... girl. That's what I meant by... well, um... she's actually... pretty well irreplaceable."

She just stared at him in silence for a long, long time... and then her lips twitched, almost in spite of herself it seemed; quirking upward into to what could almost... _almost _have passed for a smile.

"A girl... Malfoy, are you in _love?_" she asked with clear incredulity.

He didn't trust himself to answer, and in that moment even looking directly at her was so painful that it almost took his breath away. He shifted his gaze away from her, staring off into the blackness.

"You _are_," she said. Her voice was both thoughtful, and faintly - but unmistakably - amused. "Draco Malfoy in love. What a very odd concept."

"Yeah, well..." he cleared his throat, still unable to bring himself to meet her eyes. "She's... she's pretty incredible. And I'm not leaving here without her."

"Mmh." Now it was _her_ eyes that fell shut. "This is an interesting side of you, Malfoy, I have to say. And not exactly... unattractive." That tiny half-smile lingered on her face for a few seconds more - then her eyes flew wide again, their expression horrified. "Oh, wait! I didn't mean -"

"S'okay, Granger," he said, wondering how, _how_ she couldn't hear the utter torment in his voice. "I know what you meant."

"So who is it, then?" she asked. "Parkinson?"

"_No!_" He actually wrinkled his nose at this - wrinkled his _nose_, if you please! God, he really _was_ regressing to an adolescent state, wasn't he? It occurred to him then that he must_ look_ fifteen as well... at least, to her. After all, he rather thought she'd be interacting with him differently if he looked his true age. Then again, maybe this proved that fifteen _was_ his true age - maybe in the end, it was everyone's. After all, souls didn't age... they _came_ of age, sure; they matured... and they could be damaged; grievously damaged. How very, very well he knew _that_. But they never grew old. At least, he didn't think so.

On the other hand, perhaps this whole bizarre situation was simply the product of the unspeakable damage _Hermione's_ soul had been forced to endure. Because one had to ask why - why would she regress herself - and _him_, if that was in fact, what was going on here - to a place in their lives before they'd ever begun to evolve their relationship?

The answer was as simple as it was devastating.

It was because right after that point, right after she'd started to warm to him, was when everything had gone utterly and completely and more or less _permanently_ to shit for her. Right after she'd begun to warm to him was when_ her _soul had started to sustain barrage after barrage of damage, beginning in a deserted corridor beneath the school and not ending until... well, until now. Today.

_It's been me all along. Everything negative in her life began right after she let me in. _

He heard Ron's voice again in his head - the ghost-boy's gentle tone so at odds with his brutal, cutting words.

"No Malfoy. No. This is all because of you."

It was dizzying.

_Of course that's why she'd retreat this far back. Because when I entered her life, all my demons came with me. And it's been nothing but nonstop torture for her from that day to this. She won't allow herself to recognize or remember because... because... it's the only way she can protect herself anymore_.

He made a small, sick sound - the kind of sound people make when they're punched hard in the gut - because that was exactly what this realization felt like.

He wasn't even consciously aware that he'd made noise, until he heard Hermione speaking his name again, with more urgency this time.

"Wha... Granger, what?" He shook his head, trying to clear it, to collect himself.

"I said, _okay_, I can see it's not Parkinson! Geez, you look in danger of throwing up. Are you all _right?_"

"Yeah, I... yeah. It's not Parkinson."

"That's obvious. I just... at Yule Ball the two of you looked... well, it was like you _fit t_ogether."

"No. No." he shook his head again, firmly this time; set his jaw. Merlin, this conversation was _excruciating_. "I only..." he could barely even string the words together. "There's only... one girl that I fit with. That I'll _ever_ fit with. Just one."

"And she's in here."

"Yeah, I... I think. I think I can... feel her."

"Well, I doubt it's Bulstrode," she said - (he blanched visibly) - "so that means, unless she's older or younger than you... the only other alternative is... Malfoy, you rogue! Are you dating outside your House?"

It was getting worse by the minute. "Uhm," he said, his voice sounding rusty and raw.

That was, of course, all the answer she needed. "You _are!_" The amusement in her voice was more pronounced now, and he felt a small twinge of gratitude that her spirits seemed to be lifting, at any rate.

"My God," she continued, "I thought that was a lynch-able offense in Slytherin!"

"You don't know the half of it," he said ruefully. "But Slytherins are... we're, uh... good at keeping secrets."

"So what is she, then?" Hermione sounded thoroughly intrigued by now. A mystery to be solved; just her cup of tea. "Ravenclaw? Huff -"

Draco shot a deadly glare at her. "Do not _even_. Say that word."

"All right, not a Hufflepuff."

"Christ, no. I rather prefer my women to be intellectually _superior_ to garden gnomes, thank you very much."

"Not nice, Malfoy. Not nice at all. They're hard workers, Hufflepuffs."

"Yeah, they have to work _very_ hard to add one and two together. And let's not even _contemplate_ vast sums like three plus five."

Astonishingly, she actually chuffed out a small burst of laughter - then clamped her mouth shut, looking ashamed. "Well, Malfoy," she said at length, when she had mastered herself again, "I suppose it's nice to see that you're still more or less yourself... though you remain a complete git. Even finding your soulmate hasn't changed that about you, has it? Although... I suppose to be loved by you, she must be something of a git herself, mustn't she?"

"Huh." Now it was Draco's turn to be, despite everything, wryly amused. "I dunno, Granger. You might be surprised."

"Maybe," she said meditatively. "You're surprising me right _now._ I mean... I don't know why, but I _believe _you. I think you do _love_ this girl, whoever she is. You just seem... well... _earnest_ about it, I guess. Which begs the question, if you think she's lost in here like we are, then why on earth are you wasting time sitting around with _me?_ I won't... be offended, Malfoy. You can go on and..."

"No. I told you before, I can't. I _can't_, Granger. No matter what I came here looking for, what I _found_ is you. And I'm not leaving you. You said yourself you're... you're not well. I can't leave you here, sick, in the dark. Regardless of what you may think of me, I just can't. This place, _whatever_ it is... I just get the feeling that... that doing the right thing matters here. That it counts for something. And leaving you like this... it's not the right thing, Granger. It's just not."

"Well, that's... unexpectedly gallant of you. She's really working some magic on you, your secret Ravenclaw; isn't she? Good for her." Then, just as abruptly as the last time, Hermione stood and started walking again. It caught Draco off-guard all over again, but he mastered himself more quickly this time and caught her up before she'd taken more than a dozen steps. She glanced at him sideways, not breaking her stride.

"I think you have a better sense of this place than I do, Malfoy," she said, answering the question she could see in his eyes, "and so I'm going to take you at your word that doing the right thing in here matters. Assuming that _is_ the case, then it applies to me as much as to you. So I can't allow you to lose your chance... to... to find this girl you're looking for. Making you sit in one place, listening to me whine and call you names, while she could be out there alone and needing you... that's not the right thing either. So if you're determined to stick with me, the _least_ I can do is -" she shrugged - "_move_. Besides, walking helps me think. Maybe I'll remember what _I'm_ supposed to find. Or maybe we'll find your other half together. I'd kind of like to meet her, I think. Someone who can inspire such devotion in _you_... and not even a Slytherin... she must be, um, interesting." She trailed off for a moment; then, just as he'd been about to speak, a sudden, bright flash of alarm crossed her face. "Oh wait, unless... you don't think she'd... be upset I'm with you, would she? I wouldn't want her to think -"

"No, Granger," Draco choked, eyes glued to his own feet because looking right at her in that moment would, he felt, completely unglue him. "It'll be fine. She's not that way."

"Oh. All right then. Well, uh... let's go."

And they walked. As Draco's heart tried to rip itself right out of his body, and his mind swam with a helpless, hopeless, _clawing_ sort of panic as he watched her light grow gradually, but undeniably, dimmer by the moment...

They walked.


	27. It All Comes Down

"She's not a Ravenclaw."

"Huh?" Hermione shook her head, as if bringing herself back to the present. For a while now she had looked to be walking in daze, or else half-asleep on her feet; and that was what had galvanized Draco into breaking the silence. That and another heart-stopping flicker in the faint aura of light that surrounded her.

He cleared his throat. "I said, she's not a Ravenclaw."

They had talked a bit at first, as they'd walked along, about nothing in particular... subjects they'd shared at Hogwarts, mostly. Subjects that, in Hermione's mind, they were _still_ sharing at Hogwarts. But eventually they'd lapsed into silence and Draco had found himself losing track, just as he had when he'd been alone, before he'd found her, of any concept of time passing, or of distance covered.

And Hermione had begun to lag, not _walking_ so much anymore as... plodding.

Draco was still more or less completely at a loss for how to proceed in this situation. His barely controlled panic was a constant presence that he could almost physically feel. It seemed to be concentrated right behind his temples, pounding in time with the beating of his heart. The result was one _raging_ bastard of a headache.

He'd actually been walking with his own head bowed, massaging his temples with his fingertips, when he'd shot her a quick, sideways glance and had seen that latest flicker. Then the words had been out before he'd even fully realized his intent to speak them.

Hermione stopped and turned to face him, her brow knit as the processed this new information. "Wait... but, no... of course she's in Ravenclaw; she has to be."

Despite everything, he felt a small smile tugging at his lips. "Sorry, Granger... I know this must be difficult for you, but it did have to happen _someday_ - you reaching an incorrect conclusion, I mean. At least it happened _here_ though, and not in one of your Arithmancy essays, right? She's not a Ravenclaw."

Frustration now clouded her expression. "But there's nothing else she can be. Unless she... oh, wait. Of course. Durmstrang, right? Or Beauxbatons? Was she here for the tournament? Did you meet her then?"

Draco shook his head. "Neither. She's not foreign. And... she couldn't go to Durmstrang if she wanted. They wouldn't let her in."

"Wouldn't let her... but... Durmstrang only denies admittance to... Muggleborns." The last word was a bare whisper. They stared at each other in silence for a long moment. Then her fists clenched and a sudden rush of color suffused her cheeks.

"You're playing with me!" she cried. Her voice, raised in frustrated anger, echoed through the empty blackness. "That's all you've been doing this whole while, isn't it! Thought it would be a good way to pass the time in here - oh look, there's Granger, let's have a few laughs at her expense; nothing else to do around here! Well, congratulations, you really had me going! I actually thought... that maybe you'd... and now I feel more stupid than _ever_ - which is just what you wanted, right? This'll make a _great_ story for the Slytherin common room, won't it - hey fellas, wait'll you hear what I got that dumb mudblood to believe - and she fell for it hook, line and sinker!"

"Granger, _no_ -"

"GO _AWAY!_ I should have made you before! God, I can't believe I... I was actually... guh-glad that you had fuh-huh-hound me!" The tears were back, and in force; they looked in danger of shaking her apart. He reached out for her, but she jumped backward, away from him. "I was alone in the dark... for suh-suh-so long and... and then you were there, I... I was actually grateful! And all your talk... about doing the right thing... I thuh-thought it meant some-thuh-hing!"

She was barely understandable anymore, and Merlin, his heart was... was... _splintering_.

"Granger, _please_ -"

"And I tuh-_hold_ you, I told you right off, that you... were right... about me, Malfoy. You've won. You've _WON!_ So why... are... you... still... _doing_ this to me!"

"Granger, stop. _Stop!_ I'm not -"

"What... more... do... you... _want from me!_" she demanded, her voice rising in a wail - and then she _more _than flickered, more than dimmed; she winked out.

She winked completely _out_.

"_HERMIONE!_" His voice was sheer, raw panic; panic verging on madness. Hermione, no, _NO_ -"

And then she was there again, exactly where she'd been an instant ago; standing right in front of him, a couple of arm-lengths away, her eyes quite possibly bigger than he'd ever seen them before. They were positively _swimming_ in her startled, paper-white face.

"Malfoy," she said, "what -" and then those huge, dark, frightened eyes fluttered - drifted closed - and her body went as limp as a puppet whose strings had just been cut.

Draco didn't even have _time_ to shout her name again - he was just _moving_ then, moving swiftly and silently, fueled by equal parts horror and heartbroken love.

His frantic lunge allowed him to, if not catch her exactly, at least break her fall. A heartbeat later he was on the ground - or whatever passed for the ground in this godforsaken place - with her slim, pliant body clasped against him.

"Hermione, don't," he begged, turning her in his arms so that she lay crosswise in his lap, reaching with shaking fingers to push the dark, tumbled mass of her hair back, out of her face. "Don't, don't, please sweetheart, don't." Her light was so weak... so weak. "Hermione. _Hermione_."

Carefully, gently, he adjusted her so that her head lay cradled in the crook of his arm. With the hand he'd used to smooth back her hair, he now cupped the side of her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb. He noticed (though his vision had gotten very shimmery all of a sudden and he had to blink hard against the tears that wanted to come) that her pleated skirt, still stained with dark waterspots where she'd been crying into it earlier, had rucked up high around her thighs. Her uniform knee-socks, on the other hand, had been scrunched down nearly to her ankles. And Merlin, how well he remembered those scuffed Mary Janes on her feet. The combined effect of all this was to make her look unbelievably vulnerable and fragile. His amazing, confident, brilliant, beautiful wife... his heart felt as if it were literally trying to claw itself to shreds within him.

"Please," he choked out, "please... I deserve this, but God, Hermione, you don't. _You don't_. Oh God, Bookworm, please..."

A tiny furrow appeared in her brow; then slowly, slowly, her eyes flickered open. He watched her focus on him... not without difficulty, it seemed.

"Malfoy," she whispered - stopped - swallowed hard. "I don't... uhn...understand... anything... any...more. I don't..." she pulled in a hitching breath, her body tensing as if in pain. "Ow, my... stomach _really_ hurts." Her light dimmed again at that point - guttered fitfully for a terrifying moment, then steadied out once more - but fainter now than ever.

His heart was hammering high up in his throat; his blood had frozen to ice in his veins. Merlin help him, he was out of time.

"Shh," he murmured; voice calm, mind racing. "Don't talk, Granger. Not anymore. Just listen. Can you do that? Can you listen for a minute?"

She was fighting to keep her eyes open, but they were slipping shut despite her best efforts. "I don't know," she whispered; the words were cracked; painful. "Your voice is... sorta nice, actually, when... when you..." she paused, and a single rogue tear managed to escape and streak down her temple, losing itself in the tumult of her hair. Her lips twisted downward. "But why... should I listen to you when... you're only going to keep... keep _lying_..."

"_No_," he said emphatically. "No lying, Granger. I know you don't -" now _he_ was the one who had to break off and fight for control, fight not to have his words swamped by useless tears - "don't have any reason to trust me, but please believe... I'm gonna lay it all out on the line. No lies. No lies. I swear to you."

"I want Harry," she breathed, without opening her eyes. "You feel a little bit like him, you know. Smell... sorta like him too. Malfoy, can... I pretend that you're Harry? That I'm not gonna die all... alone in the dark?"

Her words knocked the wind out of him so completely that or a fraction of a second he actually doubled over, as if he'd been physically struck. He managed to master himself quickly, though - not for his own sake, but for hers.

For her sake he'd do _anything_. He'd walk through fire. Shit, he _had _walked through fire - and it hadn't been as painful as_ this_.

"I'd rather _not _be compared with Potter," he said, because he knew it was what she _expected_ him to say, "but if you must - you can pretend anything you like, Granger." His voice was tight; constricted. He was speaking around a lump in his throat that felt roughly the size of Hogwarts castle. "Only listen to me too, all right? Will you do that?"

"I'm so... tired..."

"Then we'll... we'll call it a bedtime story. Bet you haven't had one of those in a while. What do you say?"

"Um... okay, I... guess..."

"All right, uh..." _Think, Malfoy, for fuck's sake, THINK!_

"Tell me about her. If she's real... prove it. Make me believe it. Because I don't think... actually... that I'm going to be able to meet her... after all."

"Don't _talk_ like that. You're gonna be fine. We'll figure out a way to get... get you to the infirmary. I swear it. All right? But if that's what you wanna hear about, then sure I'll tell you. I don't mind talking about her - like I said, she's... bloody brilliant." He paused for a moment, trying to collect himself. A moment that turned into two, and then three. Merlin, how did he begin to put this into words?

And just when he thought he might finally have a handle on it, Hermione went and completely shattered his train of thought with one quiet, simple question -

"Why?"

"Why, what?" he asked, flummoxed.

"God, Malfoy, are you _always_ this obtuse? No wonder we don't talk more often. Why do you _love_ her? Why?"

"Why do I... shit, Granger, why does the sun rise? I love her because... because I don't know how _not_ to anymore. Without her I wouldn't be able to think, speak, put one foot in front of the other, _breathe_. But I guess if you're looking for a straightforward answer, I love her because she -" he had to pause at this point; swallow hard - "she's just... everything good that I'm not."

"Such as?" The question was barely more than an exhalation.

"Such as... brave. And generous. Idealistic. Kind. Sees the best in people; optimistic. And, um... dedicated. When she finds a cause to believe in, something worth fighting for, she'll stand her ground and _never_ give in. And she's strong, Granger, I mean... she's so strong. You don't even... she can... withstand almost..." he broke off again; found himself actually gasping for breath. He felt as if he needed to put his head between his knees... but he couldn't do that without letting go of Hermione.

And he would never let go of Hermione. Never. He'd die first.

"Malfoy, are you okay?" She sounded a little more alert - and definitely concerned.

He tried to answer her, but all he managed to produce was a strangled sort of "huh-uh." He pressed one fist hard to his forehead, fighting desperately for _control, control, control_.

She tried to lever herself up onto her elbows; failed. Collapsed back across his lap. "I've never seen you like this. What aren't you telling me?" she demanded. "What is going _on?_"

Christ, it felt as if his head was gonna _split_.

"I'm scared," he gasped, and god_damn_it he hadn't meant to say that. But all of a sudden... he just couldn't cope anymore. Couldn't, couldn't. He tightened his grasp on her almost convulsively. "Granger, I... _fuck_, I'm so scared. She's everything I said, everything and more, but she can only take so much, she can only take so_ much_ and this place is... I'm losing her. I'm _losing_ her in here, and I don't... know what..."

He was honest-to-God hyperventilating now, pulling and pulling for air and not getting any while a small, lucid, _angry_ corner of his mind was shouting, _What the FUCK are you doing - this is helping matters HOW!_

'Malfoy - Malfoy, _stop_, Malfoy! What're you so _afraid_ of!" Again she tried to sit up on her own, one arm clamped hard across her stomach - protectively, and it killed him, it killed him because he knew what she was trying to shield even if she didn't know herself, and he also knew that it was too late, too late.

The damage was done. Because of _him_ the damage was done.

"Don't," he managed to choke out, "Granger, just... lie still, lie..."

"No. _No!_ If something is _this wrong_ then we can't stay still, we can't Malfoy, we have to keep moving! I won't be the cause of this, I won't! I _believe_ you about her, whoever she is, I don't care anymore if she's a sodding Ravenclaw or not, whoever she is she's _real;_ you can't make _up_ emotion like that! Not even a practiced liar like you. So I am _not_ going to be the cause of you losing her, I'm not. Let's go. Let's _go!_"

"No," he forced out, holding her as still as he could, "you don't understand. I can't reach her. I can't _reach_ her, I could be... looking _right at her_ and I still wouldn't be able to reach her and even if I could I _shouldn't_ - I shouldn't, I'm the one who _did_ this to her, it's my fault, it's _my FAULT_, I'm poison to her, oh my God, I'm poi...poison..."

'Malfoy. _Malfoy!_" Something about the quality of her voice, the bewilderment and... and the _urgency_ in it, caught his attention; helped him to regain some semblance of control. He gulped in several quick, deep breaths.

"Yeah?" he rasped out.

She was staring up at him with an expression that was equal parts astonishment and deep affront. "You're not making any _sense_," she said.

Ah, right - _that_ explained it. Of course she'd look affronted; nothing bothered Hermione more than things that didn't make sense. He had to bite back on a bubble of laughter in that moment. Giddy, _unbalanced_ laughter.

"No, I guess I'm not. I'm all fucked up, Granger. You don't even know. _Shit_, I'm so fucked up. I just, I..." he trailed off. There was so much he wanted to say to her but he just... God, he wasn't even coherent anymore. He was losing it. No - he had _lost_ it. He had lost _her_. She was right there, clasped in his arms, a steady, solid weight but her light was going out and he had _lost_ her. He was _swimming_ in grief and despair, swimming and sinking and drowning. He could hardly form words at this point, let alone sentences.

What was he gonna do? What was he gonna _do?_

"Let me help you," she whispered, and how utterly true to character was _that?_ She was so weak at this point that she could barely move, her energy nearly spent, the faint illumination she was putting off flickering constantly now, like a candle flame in a gale-force wind. And she wanted to help him. _Help_ him, not Draco her husband but Malfoy, her childhood tormenter - that was all she knew of him in this place and still, _still_ she was willing to expend the last bit of life-force she had left in order to help _him_.

"God, Granger," he half-sobbed, half-groaned.

"There must be _something_ I can do; there must be. Malfoy, tell me what to _do_."

And it hit him. It hit him with the force of the Hogwarts Express - nearly knocked him flat. He had a chance now. If she was willing to help him then he had a chance; Merlin, he still had a chance!

"Get Potter," he croaked.

Her brows drew together, puzzled. "Harry... get _Harry?_ What are you talking about?"

"Yeah," he said, voice unsteady as inwardly he prayed, _please let this work, I don't think I'll get another chance, please oh please oh please_... "Yeah, if you... wanna help me, then go and get Potter. I can't do this, I can't find her, on my own."

"But... I don't know how to get back to Harry; I don't know how to _leave_ this place, do _you_ see an exit sign? I thought we'd covered this, Malfoy, I'm trapped - we _both_ are." But uncertainty was creeping into her voice. "_Aren't_ we?"

"No," Draco said quietly, "I know how to leave. I can give you a push in the right direction. If you'll promise to -" he wrenched his lips violently downward, hoping to convey a suitably convincing expression of bitter distaste - "ask Potter to help me. I mean, that's what he _does_, right, the mighty Gryffindor hero in shining armor? Rides off to the aid of anyone in need? Anyone who so much as stubs their goddamn _toe?_ And much as I hate to admit it, he... he does seem to have a pretty good track record. Sodding puffed-up do-gooder -" he actually could have gone on in that vein, having reconnected quite solidly now with his inner teenager; but her voice interjected, stopping him in his tracks.

"_Malfoy!_ What are you saying! If you know how to get out of here, then what are you _doing_ here! Why haven't you gone back _yourself?_"

"I already told you, Granger, I have someone to find and I _Will. Not. Leave. Here. Without her_. I know you're looking for something too, so what I'm asking of you is actually quite selfish. I'm asking you to give up on finding what _you're_ searching for, in order to get help for me - because _I won't _give up. Not ever. Besides, Potter wouldn't help me if _I_ asked him - but I reckon you can talk him into it. So what do you say - you wanted to know how you could help and I'm telling you. Will you do it?"

Waiting for her answer was the hardest thing he'd even done in his life. So much hinged on it - so much more than she could ever possibly know or imagine. _Please, Hermione, for God's sake PLEASE_ -

She swallowed hard, bit her lip... then nodded. Inwardly he all but collapsed with relief. "Thank you," he breathed, pressing his eyes briefly shut against a surge of gratitude so intense it was nearly painful. "Oh Granger, thank you."

"Well, I still... can't remember what I'm looking for anyway, so -" she shrugged - "how important can it be?"

It was patently obvious, though, from both the tone of her voice, and the look on her face when he reopened his eyes, that she was merely putting on a brave front. Well, obvious to someone who knew every _nuance_ of her face and voice, at any rate.

(_Ask Harry, or Ron... anyone who really knows me_.)

_I know you, Bookworm. I know you. Even if you don't know ME_.

"Granger, I..." but there was no way to put what he was feeling into words. And maybe that was for the best. He shook his head. "Well, come on then. No sense sitting around anymore. I don't... I don't think that... she has much time."

And he got to his feet, pulling her up with him.

"Ah - _aagh!_" She gave a breathless little cry of pain, and he just had time to see her clamp one arm hard around her stomach again and start to double over - when she winked entirely out again.

"_GRANGER!_" He'd had her by the elbows - now he grabbed for her frantically, catching her around the middle and yanking her forward, hard against him. Her head crashed against his shoulder, and he felt one of her hands fly up to fist itself in the fabric of his shirt, high on his chest. He didn't have to be able to see her, to know that her other arm was still cradling her stomach.

"_Malfoy -!_" All of the panic he was feeling in that moment was reflected in her voice. She sounded scared to death.

"S'okay," he said, pulling her closer, and closer still - and he didn't believe it was okay, not by long shot, no, they were _miles_ from okay, but he had to say _something_, didn't he? He had to say something.

"S'okay, Granger, just... calm down. It's okay. I have you. I have you and I won't let go."

His heart was pounding behind his temples like a drum because he was waiting, waiting, waiting for her to... to re-illuminate; and it wasn't happening. Her light had been so completely extinguished that she wasn't even reflecting any of _his_. His eyes, straining in the dark, told him that there was nothing there, nothing at all; only the solidity of her body pressed into his said otherwise.

No.

Oh, hell_ no_. It couldn't end like this. It couldn't. It _couldn't_. It was simply too _unfair_.

_It's fair for me, I've earned this, but not for you, Bookworm, not for YOU! You deserve so much better than this, come on, Hermione, come on, come ON_...

She was shaking against him, shaking hard and he thought to himself, _if this is the way it ends, if this is how it has to be, then we'll just lie back down together in the dark and I will hold her forever, I will never let her go. _Never_ let her go._

"Granger." He'd just remembered something he had wanted to say to her earlier. It suddenly seemed very important that he get this point across - especially if this was how things were going to end. His voice was a hoarse whisper.

"Yeah?" _Hers_ was muffled by his shirt.

"Those things you said earlier. About... about not belonging in the wizarding world? Having nothing to offer it?" he paused, expecting her to respond somehow, but she didn't. He cleared his throat, trying to force down the blockage there, with very little success. "Well, I um... I hope... that you don't really feel that way, because... it's just not true. You're... brilliant, and I'm not only saying that because you agreed to help me just now. Well, that's part of it, but... it's the truth, and... shit, this is hard to say, Granger, but... I couldn't take it that you outshone me in just about every way but one. And _Potter_ outshines me there. If I was cruel, that's the reason for it. I was just... just a stupid, spoiled, mean-spirited, _jealous_ little prat. And I'm so sorry for it. Sorrier than you know. So please tell me you don't really believe those things. You don't have to say you forgive me or that you even understand why I... acted that way. But please... please just tell me you didn't take it to heart, that you know better. _Tell_ me, Granger."

"Malfoy, it's... okay, I didn't -" she broke off with a gasp and he felt her tense against him. "Oh - owww, it hurts, and... I'm starting to feel so strange. When... when did it -" her teeth were beginning to rattle - "get so _cold?_"

"Don't," he choked out, realizing with a dull shock of horror that she _was_ getting colder - her body cooling in his arms even as he held her - the way a corpse might, but faster. So much faster. "Don't, don't, oh God, please don't."

"Malfoy, I -" her legs buckled against him; he was the only thing holding her up anymore. "I can't - are you still _there?_" Her voice was approaching hysteria. "I can't _feel_ you anymore, oh God, I can't feel you and it's so cold, don't leave me alone, I'm sorry I was mean to you, please don't leave me alone in the dark!"

Killing him. She was _killing_ him. He couldn't take anymore. And the realization that she was... was losing her awareness of him, somehow... that was worse than _anything_ that had come before. It implied that even if he did hold onto her forever, in the end they would _both_ be alone in the dark, losing their sense of one another completely over time.

That was what ultimately knocked him free of the haze of despair that had settled over him like a shroud.

_I can't let that happen. I can't and I won't_.

Ron had said that once her light went out, it would be too late - but _bollocks_ to that. He was gonna try anyway. What was the worst that could happen? He had nothing left to lose.

"Granger." Some measure of focus and determination had returned to his voice. "Can you still hear me."

"Yes... but you sound so far away..."

"It's time for you to go back. Are you ready?"

"Yes, please, it's so cold here..."

"All right, but remember - you have to go _back_. Back, to where Potter is. Not forward. Back. You understand?"

"Yes... get Harry... to help you. I know."

"Right." He wasn't sure exactly what was meant to happen next, as Ron hadn't bothered to give him any explicit instructions, He supposed he had to trust that it would just... come naturally, somehow. Once the decision was irrevocably made.

So he made it.

He stopped straining to try to make out any hint of her in the dark; let his eyes fall shut, crushed her against him with everything he had and thought,

_Take it now, Bookworm, take my light. Take my strength, take my warmth, take my energy, take my will. Take my love. Take my life. Take it all, it's all for you. It always has been. No one but you. Take it all, and make it safely back. I love you... I love you... I love you so much_.

The first change he was aware of was a slight breeze - a _warm_ breeze - stirring through his hair. Then it seemed that the darkness beyond his closed eyelids was... well, not so completely dark anymore. No, there was definitely a glow there now; soft, but growing stronger by the second.

He gulped in a deep breath, and opened his eyes.

He could see her again. He could _see_ her again - and he thought he'd never seen anything more beautiful in his life. She had raised her head and was staring right back at him, eyes wide and lips parted with amazement. Her dark hair was being blown around her face, gently, by the same breeze that he could feel on himself. It must, he thought distantly, have had something to do with the energy transference from him to her.

"I feel warm again," she murmured, with the faintest trace of a smile playing around her lips. "Malfoy, my God, how are you _doing_ this?"

"I don't know," he said, and that was the truth. "But it's time for you to go. Only Granger, there's one more thing... I never told you her name. The girl that you're helping me save."

"No, I guess you didn't," she replied, speaking as if in a daze. "What is it?"

And he smiled. No - more than smiled. His relief was so great that in that moment he actually _grinned_ - grinned dazzlingly, like a kid on Christmas morning - grinned from ear to ear.

"Hermione," he said.

He wouldn't have believed that her eyes could grow wider, but they did. She opened her mouth as if to speak, and then... that was when he saw it hit her. That was the instant in which everything came back.

Her expression clouded and for a couple of seconds she looked utterly, hopelessly confused - then it cleared, her brows knit together and he realized that she was looking at him differently.

She was looking at him with _recognition_. She was still impossibly, _ridiculously_ young, but... she was his wife again.

"Draco?" she said, her eyes searching his face, "What... are you doing? What's going _on?_"

He brought one hand up to cup her cheek, thinking _thank you, thank you, thank you God_.

What he said was, "I love you. Now you have to go back."

He could not have predicted that Hermione would go berserk.

She pulled in a deep breath as, lightning quick, her eyes darted to take in their surroundings - or lack thereof - flickered down to her own body, now awash in radiant light, then back up to his face.

"No," she said. The hand that was clenched in his shirt tightened; she brought up the other one too; grabbed another fistful of his shirt, high up by his shoulder. "I know this place. Draco, no, oh God, no!"

"Shh, it's okay now -"

"_It is not okay!_" Fresh tears sprang to her eyes and she actually gave him a little shake. "I've been here before, I know what this means! I can barely see you! You look just like Ron did when - when - oh, my God. Oh, my _God!_ This is how I lost Ron, I can't take this again, not _you_, Draco, no! No no no no -" she actually doubled over at that point, her head crashing into his chest. She still had him by the shirt, but seemed in very real danger of sinking to her knees, pulling him down with her.

"Hermione!" He steadied her, dragged her upright again. "Sweetheart, you have to _go_."

"_NO!_ Draco!" She was gasping the words, utterly beside herself. "Oh God, why are you even _here!_ You were fine when I - the last time that I -" panting, on the brink of hyperventilation, at this point she moved her hands; pressing one against his cheek and snaking the other round his neck to the back of his head, tangling her fingers in his hair.

"Ron did this to me too, I... never... saw... him again! I can't leave you here, I _won't_ leave you here, _Draco please don't make me leave you here!_ I need you! Draco! Draco, _please!_"

He smiled again, but there was an air of resignation about it this time. It occurred to him that despite the heat she was now putting off in waves, it had suddenly gotten very, very cold. "I love you," he repeated, voice so hoarse it was barely his own. "I love you. I love you." He let her go - thanks to his infusion of energy, she was standing unaided again. Reaching up, he gently but firmly pried her hands away. "You can't stay here any longer." He raised one of them to his lips, then the other. "I love you, Hermione." Still holding her by the hands, he took a step backward, creating a small but effective distance between them.

"No! _No!_ If you love me, please don't! Don't do this, Draco, please please _DON'T!_" She was fighting to free her hands from his; to throw herself back into his arms. Nearly every syllable she spoke was punctuated by a shallow, hitching, hiccuping breath. "I'll - neh - ver - for - give - you!"

"That's probably for the best," he said quietly, "and it's _definitely_ what I deserve."

"_DRACO NO NO NO!_"

"Goodbye Hermione."

He was acting purely on instinct now, as Ron hadn't actually told him what was involved in sending her back. But he figured instinct had seen him through the process of transferring his energy to her, so it ought to see him through this as well. Moving too quickly for her to counter him, he grabbed her hard by both shoulders, stared for just the briefest second into her tear-bright eyes, committing her to memory - _most beautiful thing I've ever seen_ - and then shoved her backward, hard.

She stumbled back a step, screamed his name one final time - and then was just... gone. Gone as completely as if she'd never been there at all.

He was alone, utterly and _profoundly_ alone, in the dark. Putting off only the barest glimmer of light anymore; so faint that it was all he could do to make out his hand, held in front of his face.

And _Merlin_, but it was cold.


	28. To This

"_Draco!_"

For the second time in her life, Hermione fell back into her body with a jarring, near-physical impact. Even before her eyes flew open, his name was already on her lips; a breathless, whispered scream. And she was panting as if she'd just run a marathon.

Then she was staring at the ceiling; a sterile, unfamiliar white hospital ceiling capping a sterile, unfamiliar, boxy room.

"Draco," she croaked; her throat felt agonizingly raw, sandpapery from her recent smoke inhalation.

A pair of tears escaped simultaneously from her eyes, to flash down the sides of her face and dampen the soft hair at her temples. "_Draco!_"

There was no answer. Of _course_ there was no answer.

"No. No, no..."

She struggled up onto her elbows; it made her head swim and spots dance before her eyes, but she gritted her teeth and endured. It was when she attempted to sit up straight and swing her legs over the side of the bed that things really got bad; a debilitating wave of nausea rolled over her just as a ripping, _searing_ pain sliced through her midsection.

She gave a choked cry and doubled over; unfortunately, as she'd already been at the edge of the bed, this action spilled her right over the side. She landed on her hands and knees, immediately folding over herself so that her forehead was pressed to the cold, hard tile of the floor. One arm wrapped tightly around herself, the other hand knotted in the blankets that she'd dragged halfway off the bed with her, she clamped down hard on the screams that wanted to come, fighting her way through the pain.

She was already regaining control of her thought process and her ability to reason through almost any situation - she was _Hermione_, after all - and so she understood that if she screamed, people would come. They'd force her back into bed and probably sedate her for good measure. That couldn't happen. She had to pull herself together. She had to get to _Draco_.

Draco.

Draco.

Draco.

What had be been_ doing_ Between! Fresh, hot tears flooded her eyes. He'd been fine... he'd been _fine_. When she'd turned her back on him and flooed away, choosing the children's safety over his, it had been one of the hardest things she'd ever done in her life. But he'd been fine - physically, at any rate - and that was the _only_ thing that had given her the strength to make that nightmare choice.

And later, when she'd seen him outside the house... she remembered this encounter only in the most vague, nearly delirious terms, but he'd _still_ been fine; or on his _feet_, anyway. He'd looked practically _deranged_, that was true - but bodily all right.

What had happened? What had happened, what had _happened!_

And if his presence Between meant what she _thought_ it meant - then how in God's name was she supposed to survive this?

She yanked her hand free from the blankets and brought it down hard, hitting the floor open-palmed. Again and again she smacked the tiles as hard as she could, while she strangled back her tears and whispered, "Draco, no. No! _No!_"

At length she managed to remaster herself. She pushed herself up, shakily, onto her knees and then collapsed backward onto her bum, pressed up hard against the side of the bed. She drew in several deep, steadying breaths; brought trembling hands up to push her hair out of her eyes. The pain was lessening - the physical pain, at any rate. As for her mental and emotional anguish, there was only one remedy for that - she had to find her husband.

Her children too - but first her husband.

She had to see for herself.

Slowly, carefully, using the bed for support and clenching her jaw against the pain (because there _was_ still pain - it wasn't paralyzing any longer but it was _there_ all right) she dragged herself upright. The room tilted dangerously and she swayed on her feet, holding hard to the footboard of the narrow hospital bed. Glancing down at herself, she realized that the clothes she was wearing were nearly identical to how Draco had been clad when they'd been Between. More evidence that he must be nearby.

_He was checked into the hospital then - a patient, like me. But why? Oh Draco, what HAPPENED to you?_

Several rapid, gulped-in breaths later, she forced herself to take a single, faltering step toward the door... then another, and another yet again. She felt a little steadier - not much, but a little - as if she were gaining strength from the force of her resolve.

_Draco. He can't be far away. I have to find Draco_.

It didn't last.

She practically collapsed against the door to her room, her knees threatening to go completely out from under her. Clutching the doorknob with one hand and the frame with the other, she leaned her head against the cool solidity of the wood, shut her eyes and whispered, "please. Please Draco, don't... don't have left me, don't, don't, don't..."

She took a shuddery breath, swallowed hard, and opened the door.

The corridor was as empty as her room, and nearly as silent - nearly, but not quite. She thought she heard voices from from away to the left, and instinct told her to follow them. Trailing a hand along the wall because she still felt perilously unsteady on her feet, she headed toward the sound of muted conversation... and God willing, toward Draco.

OOOOO

Hermione recognized their voices before she even saw them.

"- packed them some things and dropped them by mum's." That was Ginny, sounding about as tired as Hermione had ever heard her. "You know she and dad are always thrilled to have them and I just couldn't stay away from here, Harry, I couldn't. Not with you here, and Matt, _nothing_ can get him out of that chair, and... and God, Harry, isn't there anything we can do for him? I mean, I know the healers said he's in shock and he just needs time to recover but... there must be _something_ we can do. Anything at _all?_"

Hermione stopped just shy of the place where the corridor widened into a cramped little waiting area, of sorts - something was telling her to stay out of sight for the moment, and just listen.

At first she assumed that the 'him' Ginny had referred to must have been Matt and she felt a fresh rush of horror - what had happened to Matt? Dear God, what had she _missed?_ But when she finally peeked around the corner, still careful not to be seen herself, she was able to take in the room's occupants - _all_ of them - and understand what Ginny was talking about.

Ginny and Harry were sitting side by side on a hard, uncomfortable looking little bench. They were both slumped back against the wall, and leaning into one another for support; yet each of them had their arms wrapped tightly about their own bodies as if to contain some vast, inner misery as well. Ginny's head was resting on Harry's shoulder, her flame-colored hair looking uncharacteristically dull and lifeless; pulled back into a hasty, half-undone knot. Harry's head was tipped backward, resting against the wall.

They were both pale to the point of pastiness; Ginny's freckles standing out in stark contrast to her ashen skin while Harry sported dark smudges of fatigue beneath his eyes. Each of them looked as if the other was the only thing holding them even semi-upright in that moment.

But it was the room's third and final occupant that really captured Hermione's attention.

"Just leave it, Gin," Harry was saying hoarsely - Hermione heard him, but barely, over the howling rush that had begun to mount behind her ears. "He hasn't moved since they put him there, hasn't spoken, won't let anyone touch him, won't even... won't even wash the... and it's all _my fault_, I saw Malfoy go past too - I just wasn't paying any attention." His voice was absolutely_ jagged _with grief and guilt.

"I should've gone after him too, I... but then those God-fucking-_damn_ Aurors showed up, they _finally showed up_, and I was just distracted, I, I... God, Ginny, I really fucked up. Maybe if it had been two against one we could have _done _something, I dunno... but as it was, he just had to watch. Malfoy held him off and he... he saw the whole thing, he couldn't... stop it..."

It was Snape, of course, sitting on a bench similar to the one the Potters were sharing, but the older man had _his_ all to himself. And it wasn't difficult to guess why, seeing as he looked like a bonafide lunatic. There was so much wrong... just deeply, fundamentally _wrong_... with his appearance that it was difficult to take in and make sense of it all.

Compared to him, Both Harry and Ginny looked positively _vibrant_. Yes they were pale, but _he_ was... God, he was the color of a corpse. More than pallid, more than ashen, just... gray. A horrific, chalky shade of gray. He was sitting hunched forward on the edge of the bench, his feet planted far apart on the floor, elbows braced on his knees and both his hands clenched - and clenched _hard_ by the look of it, white-knuckled - in the silvering hair at his temples. His jaw was clenched too, his mouth a hard, tight line.

All of which was disturbing enough, especially when taken in conjunction with Harry's words. But none of it was what made Hermione's stomach drop straight down through her feet, or her heart nearly stutter to a halt in her chest, or her entire body break into a sick, clammy perspiration all at once.

What did _that_ was his hands - and his eyes.

His eyes were sunken in, smudged with exhaustion like Harry's - but whereas Harry's bottle-green eyes simply looked tired and dazed and very, very sad, Snape's eyes were... well, they were on _fire_. Coal-black against the pallor of his face, his eyes were positively _blazing_ with a heartrending combination of hopelessness, grief and despair.

He was staring fixedly, unblinkingly, unwaveringly, at something just to Hermione's left; she crept out a little further to try to make out what was holding the potion master's attention so completely.

And what she saw was a door. Just an ordinary door, like any of the hundreds of others in this building. A closed door.

She understood two things at once, with perfect certainty and at precisely the same time.

Firstly, that Draco was behind that door.

And secondly, the thing that seemed so wrong about Snape's hands - his arms too, for that matter - that she hadn't quite processed before, because her mind hadn't wanted to _allow _her to process it. They were a bright, deep scarlet color; as if they'd been dipped in red ink.

Only it wasn't ink. Of _course_ it wasn't ink. It was blood. Draco's blood.

She was looking at a man who'd gone completely mad with grief, was up to his elbows in her husband's blood, and -

_Draco's behind that door, Draco's behind that door, DRACO'S BEHIND THAT DOOR!_

Her mind shut down at that point and her body took over. She was moving then, without even being consciously aware of it; moving and moving fast. She virtually flung herself around the corner and toward the door that she felt - that she _knew_ - was all that was separating her from her husband; aware only in the vaguest, most peripheral sense of the total eruption of chaos that this action caused.

For someone who had appeared to be deeply catatonic mere seconds before, Snape moved with incredible speed and purpose. He rocketed to his feet and lunged for her as she reached the door, her hand closing round the knob; his voice tortured as he shouted, "Hermione, stop, _STOP,_ you don't want to see -"

He was almost fast enough to prevent her getting through. Almost.

But Hermione was hell-bent. Far off in the distance, might as well have been on another planet, Harry and Ginny were yelling now, too. She burst through the doorway and skidded to a halt, her eyes struggling to adjust to the dimness of the room she now found herself in.

And then there were no more sounds except for the thudding of her heart, hammering just behind her ears.

Of course there were no more sounds. Because there was no more air. There couldn't very well be sounds when there was no air, could there?

The room was a vacuum; a void. Clinging to the doorframe she was gasping, pulling, _heaving_ for air and she couldn't get any, dear God she couldn't _get_ any, and she wasn't seeing what she thought she was seeing, she wasn't, she wasn't, she wasn't, she wasn't, no no no no, NO GOD _NO_ -

Then strong arms had her from behind, one snaking hard around her waist and the other coming up to clamp a hand right over her eyes, blinding her as Snape's voice growled in her ear, "damnit, Hermione, I _told_ you not to look!"

Her legs buckled then and for a moment she actually sagged backward against him. The room was spinning and the fact that she couldn't see anymore was making the vertigo worse; she grabbed frantically at the arm that was clamped around her body like a vice. And it was tacky, oh God, oh dear sweet Christ Jesus _God_, it was tacky with blood, Draco's blood. Nausea surged through her; she had to fight back the urge to throw up.

She lost some time then; everything darked out for a moment or two and when she came back into herself she heard her own voice whispering, "I can't breathe... Severus, I cuh... can't _breathe!_" but it was as if she were hearing words spoken by a stranger. _She_ wasn't forming those words... was she? How could she be speaking, functioning, existing at _all_ when Draco was... Draco was...

Another burst of adrenaline jolted through her.

Snape was only trying to help, to shield her, but he wasn't going to keep her away from her husband; nothing was.

Arching her back, she ripped herself free of Snape's embrace, shot back to her feet, swayed for only a second; then shoved past Harry who was there now too, trying without success to intercept her.

And hurled herself toward the bed in the center of the room.

The bed where an incredibly still form lay, completely draped by a white sheet that had been pulled right up over the top of his head.

OOOOO

She actually leaped up onto the bed, straddling him; lightning-quick, scattered thoughts flashing through her mind of how many other times she'd been positioned atop him just like this, and how direly, _horrifically_ different were the circumstances now - and then she was yanking that awful, ghastly sheet away from him, pooling it down around his waist as she leaned close over him, mere inches separating their faces, searching desperately for any sign of motion, of color, of _life._

There were none.

He was as white as marble, as parchment, as the crisp, institutional pillowcase beneath his head. No faint flush high up across the tops of his cheeks... no rhythmic rise and fall of his chest with breath... no fluttering of eyelids or twitch of a finger. Nothing. _Nothing_.

This wasn't right. It couldn't be right. She'd just seen him, just talked to him, Between. Minutes ago, scant _minutes_ ago. If he was Between, he wasn't dead. Not irrevocably; not yet. Not yet, oh _GOD_ not yet.

"No. _NO_. Draco, you're not. I know you're _not! _ Draco come on, don't play this sick game, please please sweetheart, come _ON!_"

She had him by the shoulders and was shaking him before she even knew what she was doing - shaking him and sobbing and screaming his name, over and over and over again. When a hand touched her shoulder she wrenched herself away, looking positively feral now as she crouched, streaming-eyed and panting, over her husband's body.

"Hermione." It was Harry again, his quiet voice broken and almost pleading. "Hermione, come away. This isn't good for you, you have to come _away_."

"Harry," she gasped out, "Oh God, Harry, help... help us, this is... all wrong, he isn't dead, Harry _I know he isn't dead!_"

"Merlin, Hermione -" his voice was splintering - "please don't do this to yourself. You've got to come away." He reached for her again; she flung herself to the far edge of Draco's bed, simultaneously locking her arms around her husband's chest and hauling him with her.

"Don't touch me!" She screamed, utterly hysterical now, pulling Draco higher into her arms, tighter against her, keeping one arm clasped around his body while raising the other hand to tangle it, just as she had while Between, in his impossibly soft, sugar-white hair. "Don't _touch_ me, I'm not _leaving_ him like this, Harry _help us_! He's not dead, he's only Between, _I just saw him there_, I spoke to him, it wasn't ten minutes ago; he sent me back, Harry, he hasn't crossed over yet, he's still Between, I _know_ he can come back; I know it because _I _came back! Harry, he's... oh my God... oh my _GOD_..."

She had just seen his wrists.

The room tilted and threatened to fade to black again, but she fought through.

"What -" she had to stop; swallow hard, swallow back the bile that wanted to come. "Harry, what... what happened, who... did this? _WHO DID THIS!_"

But she didn't need to wait for an answer; she already knew. God help her, she knew. Everything clicked into place as she remembered Harry's words from a few moments ago -

- _maybe if it had been two against one we could have done something, I dunno... but as it was, he just had to watch. Malfoy held him off and he... he saw the whole thing, he couldn't... stop it -_

It was too hideous even to contemplate, but she couldn't negate or deny it; she even understood _why_, as echoes of words that Draco had spoken Between ricocheted painfully though her head.

_I have someone to find and I'm not. Leaving here. Without her_.

"He came after me," she whispered sickly, into the heavy-laden silence of the room. "He did this to himself... to come after _ME_."

For a moment she was very, very still. Then she shoved him - practically _threw_ him away from her, nearly off the bed.

"You incredible _bastard!_" she screamed, feeling - actually feeling and _recognizing_ in that moment, the shards of her sanity slipping away - "_how could you do something like that! _What about Ronnelle? What about Seth? What about _ME!_ How am I supposed to live with this? How would YOU live with it if our roles were reversed! I hate you! I hate you, Draco Malfoy, _I HATE YOU!_"

And a second later she'd flattened herself over him again, fisting both her hands in the soft cotton of his hospital-issue shirt, burying her face in his neck, her entire body heaving with great gusting, wrenching, utterly heartbroken sobs.

"All right, that's it." It was Snape's gravelly voice that interjected at that point. He was still hanging back by the door, still looking ten degrees or so _beyond_ ill; his voice strained nearly to the breaking point. "Potter, get her _out_ of here; this isn't good for her. _Now_."

"Hermione, he's right." Harry sank down on the edge of the bed and began to rub slow circles on her back, an attempt to calm; to soothe. "You've gotta come away, love. This isn't helping anything. You need to lie back down; you're still not well and... and Seth and Ronnelle _need_ you to get well, they're going to need you so badly now... Please, Hermione. Please come away."

"_NO!_" Her words were barely understandable anymore, but she plunged ahead anyway. "Harry, you're not... _listening_ to me! This isn't right, he isn't _dead! _ Have you touched him! He isn't cold! Shouldn't he be cold by now, and stiff if he... if he... What was he _doing_ here, left all alone like this! Why aren't they putting new blood in him? _Make them put new blood in him!_ Harry, get someone in here _NOW!_"

"Hermione, you're not thinking clearly. They could put an ocean of blood into him; it wouldn't make a difference if his _heart isn't beating_. There's no point in wasting the -"

She whirled on him then, her eyes red-rimmed and blazing.

"Is that what this is about?" she spat out, "wasting _resources!_ I'm a Malfoy, for God's sake; I could owl Gringott's right now and own this whole bloody hospital inside of an hour! Whatever it costs I'll _pay_ it, just make them do it, Harry, oh my God, help us, _PLEASE!_"

There were new voices at the door now; distracted, Hermione whipped her head toward them. A pair of healers had arrived and were huddled with Snape, throwing furtive, worried glances her way every couple of seconds. For a heartbeat's worth of time, Hermione felt relief wash over her; but just as she drew breath to tell them to get Draco hooked up to some blood replacement serum, _right the hell now_, she realized what Snape was saying to them and her _own_ blood ran cold.

"- completely overwrought; doing herself harm; needs to be sedated -"

"No." She'd intended it to be a shout, but it came out as nothing more than a hoarse whisper. She glanced back at Harry and there was no help to be had there; one look at his tormented face was all she needed in order to know that even though it was killing him, he was in agreement with Snape.

"No. _No_." The healers had started toward her; she scrambled off the far side of Draco's bed, putting it between herself and them, and backed into the furthest corner of the room, looking for all the world like a trapped, hunted animal. She was nearly hyperventilating, her words tumbling over each other. "God, please no, there's no time, he needs help _now_, if you... do... this... to me the window will close, please, _please _don't do this! Harry! _Severus! PLEASE!_"

Her frantic, streaming eyes skated from face to face; it was no good. The minds of every man in the room were closed to her. They loved her; they thought they were protecting her; but they were closed to her.

Her knees buckled and she began to slide toward the floor.

Then she saw Ginny.

She didn't know why she hadn't processed the redhead's presence in the room before, but in that moment some deep, fundamental instinct told her that Ginny was her last, best hope for an ally in this situation. But Merlin help her, the healers were closing in; she had only seconds left.

"Ginny, it's Harry!" she shouted, barely aware, in any conscious sense, of what she was saying, but knowing that it was the only chance she had _left _to save herself - or Draco.

For a moment everything stopped; everyone in the room puzzled into immobility by her cryptic words.

Ginny was as nonplussed as any of them. "Hermione, what?" she asked, brows knit.

"It's Harry," Hermione repeated, and flung out an arm, pointing toward the bed. "Ginny, it's _Harry_ lying there; what would _you_ do? If there was any hope - _any_ hope at all - _what would you do!_"

Ginny's eyes widened, and Hermione sensed that she was getting through; but not quickly enough. The two healers exchanged glances and began to advance on her again. Merlin, what else could she _say?_

Maybe... maybe there was one more thing.

"Accio!" she gasped out, and the closer of the two healers gave a sudden, surprised yelp as his wand was wrenched from his hand and shot straight into Hermione's, which was already outstretched to receive it. Lightning-fast, she whipped it around and leveled it on Draco's still form. Before anyone could react, she'd rapped out the words to form a quick, simple, surface-deep glamour.

"Ginny, _LOOK!_" she screamed. "It's Harry! Tell me what you would _DO!_"

The charm was hastily done, and performed in a state of distress-bordering-insanity to boot; really all it accomplished was to change the color of Draco's hair to a deep, inky black.

But it was enough. The impact was immediate, and it was profound.

What very little color had been left in Ginny's face fell away in an instant, leaving her deathly, _dangerously_ pale beneath her freckles; she blanched and actually staggered backward a step, one hand flying up to cover her mouth, the other feeling behind herself for the wall, or some other means of support.

In that moment she literally seemed on the point of collapse.

"Gin, _don't_, it's -" Harry threw himself toward his wife just as the healers finally reached Hermione, hunkering down in front of where she was half-sitting, half-kneeling, wedged as tightly into the corner as she could get. "No," she sobbed, letting the purloined wand clatter to the floor and dropping her face into her hands; it was too late, she had failed, she'd lost Draco forever. "No, God, oh no, Draco, Draco, Draco -"

"_Stop_."

Ginny's voice resounded through the room like a whipcrack - she had to have learned it from Molly, the astounding way in which she could _project_ when the situation demanded it. "Everyone just stop."

And everyone did.

It was amazing, really; there was no legitimate reason why Ginny should have had any say in the situation at all, and yet there it was in all its glory - that patented _Weasley-Woman_ ability to assert control over just about any set of circumstances she took a mind too. Uncanny.

It was also, in that moment, the most beautiful sound Hermione thought she'd ever heard.

Ginny gulped a deep, ragged breath, and then said, "we should listen to her."

"Ginny, for God's sake she's not -"

"Not _what?_ Thinking straight? Talking sense? Harry, this is _Hermione!_ When has she _ever_ not thought clearly? When has she _ever _not talked sense? When has she ever been wrong about something important, something that _really mattered?_ Name me one time - just one."

Silence spun out. Then Ginny's voice again, directed at the healers this time.

"Do what she asked. Can't you see she's right - shouldn't he be stiff and cold by now if he's truly dead? Get him on some blood replacement serum - for Merlin's sake, _now!_"

The room burst into activity, the pair of healers bolting for the door, already shouting orders to others who were gathering in the hall; Snape crossing to the bed to straighten Draco's body out; he'd still been draped halfway off the side of it, the result of Hermione's violent response to the realization of what he had done - what he had _sacrificed_ - for her.

Snape's expression, as he did this, was as dazed as a sleepwalker's as he appeared to grapple with the faint new ray of hope that maybe - just _maybe_ - all was not lost quite yet.

And Hermione, her whole body now shaking with reaction, shaking _hard_, tried to drag herself upright again, using the wall for support; tried and failed.

She'd been so focused on Draco that she'd utterly tuned out the signals and cues of her _own _body. Her single-minded determination may have turned the tide for her husband - that remained still to be seen - but it had also been deeply detrimental to _herself_.

A lightning bolt of pain ripped through her when she was halfway to her feet; a cold, sick, _ruthless_ blast of anguish that centered in her stomach but seemed to arc out, nearly instantaneously, to practically every extremity on her body.

A hoarse cry was wrenched out of her as she collapsed again, slamming her head hard on the floor because both her arms had flown to wrap around her middle. She curled into the tightest little ball she could manage, only distantly aware of the sudden rush of warmth on her thighs and then Ginny was on her knees beside her, screaming, "she's bleeding again, oh my _God_, get someone over here, what do we _DO!_" and Harry was there, folding himself cross-legged onto the floor, drawing her head into his lap, cushioning it, stroking the sweat-damped hair out of her face, talking, talking, talking.

"Hermione, hold on, do you hear me? Hold on and stay with me, all right? Just stay with me now, they're coming. Hermione. _Hermione_. Please tell me you can hear me, Hermione, please..."

"Huh... Harry," she gasped out, prying one arm away from her stomach to reach blindly toward the sound of his voice, her eyes scrunched shut against the pain. He caught her hand in his own, twining his fingers tightly through hers the way they'd sometimes used to do as children.

"I'm here," he murmured, "I'm right here, hang _on_, Hermione."

"Don't... let... let them... give up on him," she whispered, and then a fresh wave of agony was crashing over her, clawing her apart again, shredding her from the inside out -

And everything went black.


	29. Obliviate

_Cold and dark._

_Dark and cold._

Had his world ever been any other way?

He thought that it might have... during the stretches of time in which he was capable of anything approaching rational thought at all.

It might have... once... a very,_ very _long time ago. He thought there might have been light... warmth... voices... the faces of people he loved.

Not that he had anything but the vaguest concept anymore of what _any _of those things were. Light, warmth, love - they were like glimpses of memory gleaned from a long-ago dream. He _thought_ he knew what they meant - or at least, that he _should_ know what they meant - but when he tried to pin them down they simply flitted away, usually taking his ability for coherent thought with them, for a while at least -

and then he was alone again with the dark and cold. Drifting.

How long had he been here? Time was another concept that had become maddeningly elusive. But, if he had to guess, he supposed it must be close to... a hundred years?

Did that seem right?

Well, it depended.

Was a year much different than a minute? Or an hour?

But to know the answer to that, he'd have to know what an hour was.

Hour... hour... funny word.

Rhymed with flower.

Wait... what _was_ a flower, anyway?

He seemed to remember that flowers were... pretty... pleasant... smelled nice.

_Hermione._

Yes, that was right. He'd had a flower, once. A flower named Hermione.

Hadn't he?

_Hermione. Hermione. I love you, Hermione._

But then he was thinking too hard, and so everything flew away again.

And he just knew that it was dark.

And _cold_.

OOOOO

"- and then we blamed the whole sorry mess on Seth, do you remember! And they never even _questioned_ us because you were always such the perfect little Ravenclaw! _Merlin_, was he pissed - wouldn't even _look_ at me for a month. I can't imagine how long_ you _got the silent treatment for -"

"Just a week and a half," Ronnelle whispered hoarsely, lips quirking upward into an expression that very nearly resembled a smile. "I baked him cookies. Works every time."

Matt's breath caught in surprise and his hand tightened on hers. He'd been sitting on the edge of her bed, just talking to her, quietly and constantly for... well he didn't really know how long, but it had to be a couple of hours, anyway. A couple of hours at _least_.

In the constant dim silence of the hospital room, time lost much of its meaning.

"Ronnelle?" He leaned close over her; brought up his other hand, pressing the backs of his fingers gently to the side of her face. "How long have you been awake?"

"Not long." She swallowed hard; winced, slowly blinked open her eyes. Those astounding, pale eyes. It took them a moment to focus on him. "Is there water?"

"Yeah," he breathed, feeling sucker-punched by those eyes, just like always. He didn't think the effect they had on him would _ever_ lessen. "Yeah, 'course there's water. Hang on a sec, all right?"

She gave a ghost of a nod, and he disengaged; crossed the room to a sliver of counter near the door, where a pitcher'd been left by the night attendant. Returning with a glass, he saw that she appeared to be struggling to retain her tenuous grasp on consciousness. Her eyes were trying to drag themselves shut again; trying hard by the look of it.

"Hey, 'Nell," he murmured, sinking back down beside her, "do you think you can sit?" His mind was replaying the last time she'd sat up, and the damage it had done. He was pretty sure that her ribs were more or less knit back together by now - a healer had been in to check on her relatively recently and had appeared to be satisfied with her condition - but God, that hurt in her eyes; he wasn't sure he could stand that again.

"I dunno. One way to find out, I s'pose..." she levered herself up onto her elbows, her movements tentative; ginger. He caught the flash of pain that crossed her face; the sharp little inhalation of breath; the way she bit down on her lip.

"Ronnelle, are you -"

"No, s'oh... kay," she managed, cutting him off, trying to keep a brave front. And God, he'd give anything to take that pain away from her, just lift it off of her and onto himself, like reaching over and grabbing her Quidditch equipment bag when they were trudging side-by-side back up from the pitch and she was tired from a long practice, or a game well played.

Why couldn't it be that simple?

Why did he get the sick, sinking feeling that nothing was _ever_ going to be that simple again?

He handed her the glass and she drank, then collapsed back against the pillows. "Thanks," she whispered, her eyes falling shut again. "Is Seth still okay?"

"Yeah, he's fine." Matt reached over her to place the now empty glass on the nightstand. "He's still out. He was starting to come around a little while ago, but the healers put him under again. Said he needed more rest. But he wasn't badly hurt or anything; you got him out before the fire started."

Eyes still closed, Ronnelle's brows knit together in consternation. "There was a fire? I don't think I remember that."

Damnit, damnit, _damnit_. He'd gone and put his foot in it _again_. The _last_ thing she needed to hear right now was that her entire house had burned to the ground. Merlin, he was an idiot.

It never occurred to him, of course, that he was an utterly exhausted, emotionally wrecked _kid_. Not for a second. Then Ronnelle's eyes flew open again.

"What about Seth's ferret? That's the whole reason we went back - he wanted to make sure she was okay. Did someone get Blanche?"

Matt shook his head miserably, hating himself for having steered the conversation, however unintentionally, in this direction. Even so, he wouldn't lie to her. Not to Ronnelle. Never.

"No, 'Nell. We were preoccupied with just getting the... the_ people_ out. No one remembered Blanche. I'm sorry."

It was amazing how quickly the facade she'd been trying to maintain crumbled. Her eyes slammed shut but not before he saw them start to shimmer - they looked like quicksilver when she cried. She pressed her mouth into a hard line and he knew that she was fighting to keep the tears at bay - it was a losing battle. A second later she clapped both hands to her face and was sobbing.

"Oh, Ronnelle." Matt's heart had clenched so hard he found it difficult to speak. "Come on, don't, please don't."

"But you don't... under... stand," she gasped out through the tears, "he's gonna... hate me... even more now! He was... was depending on me... to help him... help him... oh God, Matt! Somehow I let everything get... all bollixed up... it was my fault, it was all... all my..."

"Ronnelle, no!_ NO!_ How could you _think_ that! No one saw the danger, _no one_ - and _none_ of it was your fault. You did everything you could for Seth, you got him out of there, you're a bloody _hero_ -"

"No, no, no, _no!_" She was crying so hard by now that she was having trouble stringing words together. "You'd _never think that_ if you knew... if you knew what... A hero would've... would've... figured out... a way to... to... make things _right_, not just - not just go... _along_ with - oh God - Matt - I'm gonna be sick..."

As with most things, she was right. Before he even had time to react, she'd thrown herself halfway off the bed and was retching violently onto the floor.

"_Ronnelle -!_" He lunged after her; caught her around the middle because it looked as if she were in very real danger of slipping over the side of the bed altogether.

Then, for a very long time, he simply held her as she heaved herself dry. He noted, distantly, that the mess vanished as soon as it touched the floor; the rooms here were apparently charmed for ease of clean-up.

When it was over, except for little tremors like aftershocks that continued to wrack her slim body every few heartbeats or so, he pulled her back from the edge of the bed, snug up against his chest, one arm cushioning her head and the other slung over her waist, so that the two of them ended up essentially... spooning.

He found that he was - had been the whole time, apparently, without any conscious awareness of it at all - quietly shushing her, murmuring soothing nonsense words, and gently, absently, stroking her hair.

"S'okay, love... Ronnelle, it's okay. It's over, I've got you, and you're okay... shh, shh, you're okay..."

She gulped in a couple of deep, hiccuping breaths, and then she was crying again. Not sobbing anymore - no, at this point she was just crying; weakly, exhaustedly, like a tired, lost, hurt child.

Because that's exactly what she was.

"But it's not... okay and... _I'm_ not... okay and... nothing's ever gonna be okay... again... because I can't... I can't... stop _remembering_... and Seth, he wouldn't... even... _look_ at me. He hates me already and now... now when he realizes... that I couldn't even save that stupid ferret, I couldn't even do that much, he'll never look at me _again_ and I, I, I just want... my mum... Matt, where's my _mum?_"

"I dunno, 'Nell... but I know she'll be here as soon as she can. And I'm here til then. I won't leave you. Just try... try to rest, okay?"

She nodded, not lifting her head from where it lay, fever-flushed and tear-sticky and too warm, on his arm. (His arm that was rapidly falling asleep - but he didn't care.) She tried to swallow back her tears then, but only ended up choking on them instead. Coughing, she curled herself tighter into a ball - and he curled up tighter around her.

Eventually, the spasm ended; he realized she had an arm pressed tightly across her ribcage again.

"That really... _really_ hurt," she whispered, her voice sounding weirdly detached; far-away and almost... dreamy. He actually groaned then, into the curtain of her spun-silk hair. This was ripping him apart.

"Matt, um..." he voice seemed to be fading more with every word. "Can I have more water? And maybe some toothpaste?"

"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "I'll get a healer too. You should be... looked at."

"_No!_" The amount of panic she managed to infuse into that one word was surprising. "No, don't leave. Please, I don't... want to be alone."

"Shh, okay. Okay, Ronnelle." It went against his better judgment, but he could not have denied her anything in that moment. If she had asked him for the moon, he would have found a way to get it for her. So he only disentangled himself enough to sit up and pour her more water, and rummage through the small drawer that was set into the bedside table, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe there'd be some toothpaste stocked inside.

He was in luck.

She managed to lift her head maybe two inches from the bed, squeezed some toothpaste directly into her mouth and followed up with a swallow or two of water; he actually had to grab the still-mostly-full cup away from her as her grip began to loosen, her eyes falling shut from sheer exhaustion.

"Thank you," she breathed without opening them again, and then, "Matt, can you... would you, um... hold onto me again? I'm kind... kinda cold and..." she trailed off, her words dying away to be replaced by a shallow sigh. Then her breathing evened out and he realized that she was asleep again, just that fast.

"Yeah, 'Nell," he said quietly, settling back down against her and drawing her lightweight, hospital-issue blanket up over them both. "Of course I will. I'll never let you go."

He fully intended to stay awake. Honestly, he did.

It just didn't work out that way.

OOOOO

What did light look like, again?

Draco had been pondering that one for a while.

He supposed, in the end, that it must look like... well, like an absence of dark.

Right. That made sense.

So, what did an absence of dark look like?

And therein lay the problem; he couldn't remember.

Damn it, damn it,_ damn it_.

Wait... damn _what?_

Oh bugger _all_, he was thinking too hard again. He'd learned what that meant, what would happen next.

_No, no, no, no, NO..._

_...Hermione..._

And the nothing crept back in, closing over his head like cold water.

OOOOO

Matt woke slowly, groggy nearly to the point of stupefaction. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep, just that Ronnelle was warm and heavy in his arms, pressed up against him and... and... Merlin, it was the strangest sensation.

At first he thought he was still caught in a dream, but... no... groggy or not he was awake, and Ronnelle was... was...

What... in the hell... was she _doing?_

"Mmph -!" He made a small, muffled sound and his eyes flew open to lock, startled, onto her silver ones - just as, never breaking the eye contact, she deepened the kiss. She actually flashed an arm around to the back of his head, splaying her fingers in his hair, and pulled him in deeper.

And it was... amazing.

And he was still so disoriented.

He came very, very close to letting his own eyes slip shut again and just going with it... but then he came back to himself and realized just how terribly _wrong_ this was.

It was those drop-dead gorgeous eyes of hers.

There was something so eerie and unsettling about her steadfast gaze, so unnaturally, searchlight-intense. And the expression _behind _those mercurial eyes - they were absolutely _blazing_ with a gut-wrenching, desolate, hopeless despair.

So he steeled himself, gripped her by the shoulders, and pushed her gently, yet firmly away. Having broken the connection, he found that he was panting.

"Ronnelle... what... what're you..."

"Don't talk." Her voice was a hoarse, raw whisper. "Please don't talk, Matt, I just... I just need -"

"I don't know what you _think_ you need, but this isn't it," he said, he said, voice thick, still trying to get hold of his heart-rate and breathing.

Her eyes flashed pure desperation.

"It _is_, though - it really is. You don't understand, I've been thinking... and, and... _thinking_... and this is all I can come up with, this is... this..." She pressed her eyes briefly shut; drew in a deep, shaking breath. "I can't... think of any other... _way_ to... God, Matt, you have to help me, it was all wrong, it was - it was - and I can't... stop... _seeing_ it, and... and feeling... feeling..." her slim body was wracked by something that seemed half shudder, half sob.

"Merlin Ronnelle," Matt croaked, "please don't -"

"But you can help me! You can make it all go away because... because if I do it all over again, the way it's _supposed_ to be, with_ you_ - then it'll be like... like what do the Muggles say, recording over..."

"No." He couldn't rip his gaze away from her eyes. They were dry now, no tears threatening... but they were red-rimmed, and glassy, and just... so deeply, fundamentally _wrong_. He reached up to smooth a stray lock of her starlight-colored hair back, off her forehead. "I wish it worked that way, Ronnelle, but I don't think it _does_, it -"

"It _does_, though! It has to! Matt, it has to because I can't think of another way and... and... I'm usually good at thinking things through, if there were any other way I... I..." Her breath was hitching, making it difficult for her to get the words out. "Please. Matt. Please. _Please_. Help me get... get... him... out of... my _mind!_"

"Ronnelle, I can't. I can't, it's not _right_." He felt the truth of this statement even as he spoke, but still he wasn't sure whom he was trying harder to convince, her or himself; because there _was_ a part of him - a sizable part of him, to be perfectly honest - that would have absolutely _loved_ to proceed. He was a teenaged boy, after all, and - God, what she was _offering _him -

He ground down on it, forcing it into submission. Swallowed hard - his throat was painfully dry. "You're not thinking clearly, and I won't take advantage of that. You're too... _valuable_ to me, I -" his voice dropped to a rasping whisper - "I love you too much to do that to you."

She just stared at him for a long, heartbreaking moment of silent desperation, her eyes burning into his, begging, begging.

"Please, Ronnelle," he choked out, because she felt so _good _in his arms and it would be so easy to close the distance between them again, just meld his lips to hers and... and lose himself in the sensation and just _forget_ for a little while, and he could feel his fragile control slipping, a fraction more with every heartbeat and, and... "you've gotta stop, just... c'mere, all right?"

He tightened his arms around her, tried to pull her closer, but not in the way that she seemed to have in mind; just to hold her, to soothe her, to press her head to his shoulder and let her feel his arms around and... and maybe impart to her some modicum of security, of peace.

Ronnelle, it transpired, had other ideas.

"No! Get_ off!_" She tensed against him, shoving him away, breaking their embrace. Her voice was nearly a snarl now. "If you won't help me, you won't _help_ me - fine, but don't try to mask it with... with _pity_, Matthew Potter, that's the last thing in the _world _I want from you! If I repulse you now, then so be it, but at least have the decency to be _honest_ with me about it!"

"Ronnelle, _what!_ No, you can't actually -"

"Oh, don't backpedal _now!_ It's all right, really, I can hardly fault you, I mean I wouldn't... want me... anymore either, after... after..."

Her breaths were piling up nearly to the point of hyperventilation now - crying would actually have been better for her, healthier, but it seemed she was entirely out of tears.

"Ronnelle, for_ fuck's sake_ -"

"Shut up!" There was more than a touch of hysteria in her voice. She propelled herself into a sitting position, even though doing so caused her to blanch whiter than a sheet. Matt shot up too, reaching instinctively to steady her, but she wrenched herself away from him, scooting backward on the bed until she was pressed up against the headboard.

She was practically panting now and looked positively manic. All he could do was stare at her, dumbfounded. He was completely out of his depth.

"Just... be quiet a minute... all right? Let me think. I need to _think_." She had pulled her knees up to her chest; now she raised both arms, resting her elbows on her knees and clenching her hands in her pale hair in a completely unconscious gesture of despair nearly beyond endurance.

"Ronnelle -" his voice was a hoarse whisper.

"_I said shut up and LET ME THINK!_"

In a lifetime of friendship, she had never yelled at him like that before. Stunned into silence, he watched helplessly as she dropped her face to her knees and laced her hands tightly over the top of her head. It was uncanny; she was mimicking almost exactly, though neither she nor Matt knew it, the posture that her father had adopted when waiting on the floor outside Hermione's room all those hours ago.

Matt was just drawing breath to speak again - though with no clear idea of what to say - when she raised her head once more.

"Okay," she said, in a voice that seemed scraped raw. "I can think of one other way. Do you have your wand here?"

Matt felt something go cold inside of him at this. It was despite deep, deep misgivings that he finally, reluctantly nodded.

And knew, even as he did so, that he was making a grave mistake. But damnit, he couldn't_ lie_ to her. Not to Ronnelle.

"Good. I need you to Obliviate me."

For a moment he simply continued to stare at her; blankly; stupidly. He couldn't have heard that right.

He COULD. NOT. have heard that _right_.

She misunderstood his expression.

"I know it's underage magic, but you really needn't worry - my dad knows people at the Ministry, he can get you off; he's done it for Seth loads of times. That boy just doesn't understand the concept of -"

"You're mental."

His voice came out flat, almost... dead. It felt as if something inside him, some hitherto unrealized but yet crucially important part of himself, had broken at the sound of her speaking those words. He shook his head... groped for more words. Couldn't find any. There were only two words in the whole, wide world at that moment. So he spoke them again.

"You're _mental_." And then, a long moment later, after struggling, _hard_, to reassert some sense of control over himself, "I'm not going to _Obliviate_ you, Ronnelle."

"But I told you -"

"This isn't about underage magic, Jesus _Christ_, Ronnelle! I did _loads_ of it when your dad and I - when we - I could fucking care less! This is about - don't you _get_ it, what you're asking me to do? I dunno how to Obliviate anybody - and I'm sure as _hell_ not gonna have my first-ever go with the person that matters... matters most to... I mean, what if I were to get it wrong! ? I'd fuck you up for _life!_"

"No, _you_ don't get it!" and she was screaming now, right back at him, "Matt, don't you understand, oh my God, I'm _ALREADY_ fucked up for life! I'm sorry, but the ship has _sailed_ on that one - someone beat you to the punch! I can't... _live_ with this, I can't... and I _won't_... the things that... happened, the things that _I DID_ and Seth... the _look _on Seth's face... there's nothing you could do, _NOTHING_, that can possibly be worse than... than..." she broke off, fighting vainly for composure. Sucked in several deep breaths, gulping the air as if she were drowning.

Finally she shook her head, back and forth, just once but with a definite air of finality. Her voice, when she spoke again, was barely audible - but her words were crystal clear. They impacted him like hurtled shards of frozen metal; like ice.

"Get out."

"Ronnelle -"

"No! Get _out!_ If you won't help me then just get out! Get out of my room, stop _looking_ at me like that, I asked for your help, not your _pity!_ I mean it, I never want to see you _again_, just get out, get out, get _out!_"

As an added bit of punctuation, she threw a pillow at him. It hit him in the chest, and broke the paralysis that seemed to have overtaken him.

"Fine," he said, distantly amazed at how cold and hard his _own _voice had become. But what else was he supposed to say? He could not, _would_ not do what she was asking him to do, and if she wanted to punish him as a result, then so be it. He was exhausted; he didn't have it in him to fight with her anymore. "You're completely nutters, Malfoy, but fine. If that's what you want -"

"It _is_ what I want, just get out, get out, get_ OUT!_"

This time he had to duck, and even so he only barely missed getting hit in the face by her water glass, which shattered against the wall scant inches from his head.

"GET! _**OUT!**_"

He spun on his heel and left.

OOOOO

Seth and Ronnelle had always been more different than alike in any number of ways, and their sleeping patterns were no exception. Seth got on with quite a bit less sleep than Ronnelle, and whereas for her waking was usually a lengthy, one might almost say_ languid_ process, Seth had a habit of coming back to awareness with a suddenness and completeness that was downright uncanny.

It was the case now, as - despite the fact that he'd been magically sedated for hours - he came fully awake and alert in an instant. And one more instant - just time enough to glance across the small room - was all he needed in order to deduce that something was very, very wrong. He sat up, shoving the thin, white hospital blankets off himself.

"Ronnelle?" His voice was croaky with disuse and the last fleeting vestiges of sleep. "Ronnelle, are... you _okay?_"

It was a silly question; _obviously _she wasn't okay. Didn't even look to be within shouting distance of okay, actually. The fact was that she looked positively deranged - which was, of course, what had prompted him to ask the question in the first place.

At the sound of his voice she stopped her pacing - for that's what she'd been doing, pacing the length of the boxy little room, back and forth, back and forth, between their two beds, muttering furiously to herself all the while. She'd been doing this since shortly after Matt had left the room, some twenty minutes or so ago. She turned to face her brother, reaching up distractedly to shove a quantity of her sugar-white hair out of her eyes... which were, Seth saw, positively _wild_.

He swallowed convulsively. This was not good.

"Hi, Seth," she said, and her voice was just as queerly distracted as her gesture had been. "Matt says your ferret died. Just one more way I failed you - you can add it to the list. Now be quiet a minute, all right? I'm trying... trying to remember..." she trailed off and resumed pacing. She was using the fingers of one hand to massage her temple - a habit she had when studying or thinking hard. Her other hand was clutching a dark, slender length of wood; a wand, Seth saw, his eyes widening.

But not hers. He knew her wand by sight almost as well as he knew his own.

_Really_ not good. His anxiety blossomed into outright fear.

"Ronnelle -"

"I said, _shush!_ I have to make sure I get it right! I've never actually performed this spell before, not... outside of a classroom setting..."

"But you can't do magic, here, Ronnelle - we're not at school."

"Oh right, like that ever stopped_ you!_ Seth! _Please_ - please just let me concentrate."

"But..." his throat felt painfully dry and oddly tight; constricted. There was a burning, prickling sensation at the backs of his eyes. His next words came out as a whisper. "I just want you to be okay, 'Nell. You're scaring me. Please just be _okay_."

She stopped again; she was standing near the wall, now, right beside one of the nightstands that flanked her bed. She looked at him for a long moment and it seemed as if - just maybe - she was actually seeing him. He felt the tightness in his chest and throat start to ease, just a little.

His relief, however, would be short-lived.

"I'm not okay," she said, her tone heartbreakingly matter-of-fact, voice so low that he could barely hear her, for all that they were only a few feet away from each other. "I'm not, but I _will_ be. Matt forgot to take his wand -" she raised it a little, letting him see it clearly for the first time - "and so I will be. Just give me a minute, Seth - all I need is a minute, and a little bit of quiet, and then... then everything will be fine again. _I'll _be fine again. I won't have to... have to... keep seeing..."

She trailed off again, mouthed a few more words in silence, then took a deep, shaky breath. Locked her eyes on his again; flashed him what she seemed to think was a reassuring smile. It wasn't. Then she swallowed hard, pressed her pale eyes shut, and raised the wand, pressing its tip against her temple, the one she'd been massaging a moment ago.

"Ronnelle, don't! I'm sorry! It was my fault, _everything_ was my fault, and I'm so sorry - I'll make it up somehow, I'll... I'll... I don't _know_, but I'll think of something, I swear I will! Only please don't do that, _please!_"

"I have to, Seth," she whispered, eyes still closed, "but it's okay, I promise, I know what I'm doing... I think..."

The door to the room slammed open then, surprising them both, and Matt strode in, looking grim and angry; face set, jaw tight. Unbeknownst to either of them, he'd spent the past twenty minutes pacing the hallway, mirroring almost exactly her movements inside the room.

"Listen, Ronnelle," he started, "we're going to talk about this, and -"

He broke off abruptly as he registered the scene he'd walked in on; the stoney expression falling from his face, his eyes widening with alarm. His next words - "oh,_ shit_" - were breathed more than spoken.

Ronnelle's eyes had opened again at the sound of Matt's voice; she pressed herself backward, up against the wall, keeping as much distance between them as possible. Her breath was coming in shallow, rapid little pants; her hand shaking as she continued to hold his wand to her own head.

As he watched, aghast, first one tear and then another streaked silently down her face.

"Ronnelle." His voice was low; steady; outwardly calm. Something around the edges of it, though, hinted at his quickly mounting panic. "Ronnelle, put it down."

She shook her head, back and forth, just once - but with finality. "I have to, Matt," she whispered. "I can't live with... what happened, I can't, I just can't."

"I know. I just -" he swallowed hard - "I'll do it, okay? I changed my mind - I'll _do _it. This isn't something you should do to yourself, you _know_ that, that's why you asked _me_ in the first place. I'm sorry I said no, I've been thinking it over, I'll _do_ it, Ronnelle, just _give me the wand_."

She just looked at him for a long, long moment - long enough for him start to hope that maybe he'd gotten through. Then she laughed - a single, short burst of bitter, mirthless laughter that was really more than halfway to being a sob.

'You're a terrible liar, Matt," she said. "Just... bloody awful. You always_ were_ - it's the Gryffindor in you, I expect. Though I don't think you've ever lied to _me_ before."

"Ronnelle, I'm not -"

(Though of course he was - he was breaking one of the cardinal rules of his life. Anything, _anything_ to get her to put down that god-forsaken wand. He would never forgive himself for leaving it in the room, never never never _never_ -)

"Please don't make it worse." He could hear in her voice, see in her eyes, that she was gathering her courage and focus in order to do it.

"Ronnelle, _no_, you _CAN'T!_" He was practically screaming now, the thin veneer of calm completely blown away, his voice breaking with panic. Seth's eyes were flashing back and forth between them, wide with horror and why wasn't anyone coming, surely somebody must be able to hear the shouting, or were these rooms soundproofed? Merlin, why wasn't anyone _coming?_

And then it happened. She slammed her eyes shut, the wandtip still pressed to her temple; sucked in a ragged, hitching breath - and he was moving then, moving like greased lightning but it was still too late, too late.

"_Obliviate_," she whispered, and there was a flash of light and then the wand was tumbling from her hand and Matt, still in motion, close to her now but not close _enough_, could only watch helplessly as she crumpled - her head impacting the corner of the nightstand, hard, as she fell.

"Seth," he was yelling, even as he reached her, "get help,_ GET HELP!_"

On some distant, marginal level he was aware of Seth launching himself off his bed and racing for the door; then he was on the floor beside Ronnelle and she was all he saw, all he cared about - everything, she was _everything _and God... _God,_ he had failed her and now...

"Ronnelle," he croaked sickly, reaching with shaking hands to turn her - gently, so gently - onto her back. Her face was wax-pale, her eyes closed. "Ronnelle, look at me, c'mon."

Very slowly, she opened her eyes. They were dreamy; unfocused. Empty.

"No," Matt whispered hoarsely. "No, Ronnelle, come _on_, I said _look_ at me, at _me_."

She blinked. Frowned. Still with that eerily, terribly wrong expression of vacancy behind her gaze. He was hovering right over her, their faces only inches apart, but she wasn't seeing him. He was sure of it. He _knew_ it.

She wasn't seeing _anything_.

"My head... hurts," she whispered then, her voice barely more than an exhalation. And she wasn't talking to him either - didn't seem to be talking to anyone, actually, except maybe herself.

He answered her anyway, barely able to speak around the Quaffle-sized lump of grief that seemed to have lodged in his throat.

"S'okay, 'Nell, help is coming. Seth's getting help."

She actually cocked her head a little in response to that - or at least, for a hopeful second or two he _thought_ it was in response to that - but then he realized that she'd cocked it, if anything, the _other_ way - away from him.

"Why yes, that would be wonderful," she murmured, lips curving upward in the hint of a smile. "I would absolutely_ love _some strawberry pie."

"Oh _God_, Ronnelle," he virtually groaned - and then a new rush of horror overtook him as he noticed something that he hadn't before; blood was pooling on the floor beneath her head like some garish, nightmare halo; staining her silver-white hair a deep, shocking crimson.

And then her eyes were rolling back, falling shut and he was screaming, not even words anymore, just screaming - and then the room was full of people and he was being hauled backward, pulled away from her, kicking and thrashing, fighting to stay beside her and half-shouting, half-sobbing her name...

And then they must have sedated him because suddenly there was nothing anymore except darkness and quiet and a sensation of floating... and an afterimage of wide, beautiful, but hopelessly empty silver eyes.

OOOOO

For a long time, his body had shaken and his teeth had rattled. He was over that, now, though. didn't even need to clench his jaw anymore.

Not that it wasn't still hideously, howlingly, bitingly cold. It was. It was just that... well, it was hard to explain, really. But Draco supposed the closest he could come to finding words for it was, that he and the cold were... merging, somehow. His body, or... whatever passed for his body in this place... had stopped struggling against the cold because...

Because he was _becoming_ the cold.

He was being... absorbed into it, somehow. Into the cold and into the dark and into the... _nothing_.

And once that process was complete, there would be nothing left that was _Draco_ at all, except, he thought, for maybe some faint, residual sort of... echo.

And he found he didn't mind.

In fact... he rather welcomed the idea.

Being Draco was not, at the moment, terribly appealing, after all.

To be nothing... or rather, more accurately, to be one tiny, insignificant part of a much _larger_ nothing... well, he wouldn't have to _think _anymore, would he? No, never again. And thinking brought confusion, and frustration, and pain. And worse still, it brought the briefest, most tantalizing, most _torturous_ glimpses of... of what?

(_A good life. It was a_ good life.)

To be able to almost see... almost hear... almost touch... almost _taste _those memories, and then have them flit away the moment he got too close, the moment he nearly got a real _handle _on them... it was torment beyond belief.

And he was_ tired _of it. God... he was just so tired. Tired, and cold, and sad, and... done.

He was done. Done being Draco. Done being _anything_.

_Let it take me. I'm ready. I've given everything I had. There isn't anything LEFT._

And he had an inkling that he might be able to speed the process of... of... _dissolving_ if he just... just let go. Let the cold, black silence carry him away.

So he dragged in a final, deep, shuddering breath - held it - released it -

(_Hermione, Hermione, Hermione_...)

And relaxed.


	30. Voices in the Dark

Ronnelle stared around herself, blinking, unable to quite make sense of what she was seeing. Something about where she found herself seemed... very odd.

Not that she'd never been here before; to the contrary, she had, and quite often. Hell, she practically _lived_ down here during the season. Still, this was strange - for a number of reasons. First off, she was nearly positive that she had just - really _only_ just - been someplace else entirely.

Secondly, it seemed that at the present moment in time she was the only person here, and that was_ decidedly _unusual.

And then there was the glaringly obvious fact that -

"This isn't even my House." She spoke aloud, but absently, and to no one but herself. She leaned forward, out over a large quantity of festive scarlet and gold bunting; gazing across the deserted Quidditch pitch at the equally empty Ravenclaw stands opposite, all decked out in blue and bronze.

She frowned.

"I belong over _there_."

"Hermione's daughter, a Ravenclaw," came an amused voice at her elbow. "Imagine that."

Huh. Apparently she wasn't quite so alone as she'd thought, after all.

Startled, whirled to her left, the direction from which the voice had come.

To find someone she'd never met in her life - and yet recognized instantly, certainly, beyond the shadow of a doubt. Her pale eyes widened in surprise.

"About the Gryffindor stands," he said conversationally, "you'll have to forgive me but it's been a long time since I was last here, and... well, a lot of happy memories. I suppose I was feeling nostalgic."

"I know you," she said, her voice not much more than a whisper. "I know you, I was _named_ for you. You're Ron - Matt's Uncle _Ron_."

"Matt's uncle," he echoed, then smiled - a smile that was very nearly a grin. "Yeah, I suppose that's right. I hadn't thought of it like that before... Harry and my baby sister, who'd have guessed? Blimey, we'd have been brothers. Harry and me. _Brothers_."

"You_ are _brothers," Ronnelle said. "That's what Uncle Harry says - he always says you _are._"

"Does he." Ron smiled again, that forever-seventeen-year-old smile, a little wistful now around the edges. "I wish I'd had a bit more time to talk to him. Circumstances didn't really allow for a lot of conversation. But I've only a short time left, and I chose to spend it with you instead."

"_Me?_ Why me? You don't even -"

"Because you've just done an extraordinarily foolish thing," Ron said with calm gravity, "and you're going to need some help to _un_do it before it's too late."

OOOOO

"Harry...?"

He'd been dozing sprawled in an armchair beside Hermione's bed, hair a worse mess than usual and glasses askew over the bridge of his nose, but the sound of her voice - for all that it was a bare whisper - brought him around with a start.

"Huh?"

Hermione, he saw, after bringing his eyes back into focus, had turned onto her side at some point so that she was facing him. Her hair was fanned out over the pillow, her dark eyes haunted. Still, in spite of everything, she tried in that moment to crack a tiny smile.

"Hey," she said. The smile vanished. It had been a valiant effort, but doomed from the start. "What're you doing here?" Her eyes flicked past him, to the room's sole window, and then back again. "S'the middle of the night."

He leaned forward and took one of her hands in his. It was shockingly cold. "You'd be here if it were me," he said quietly.

Again that weak little ghost of a smile, there and gone. "I'm glad it isn't you."

"God, Hermione." That was all he said. It was all he could think of _to_ say.

"Harry." She swallowed, seemed to be rallying herself. Speaking was obviously costing her some effort. "S'not your fault. You know that, right? You always think... that everything's your fault."

"I don't know. I don't _know_. But damn it, I should have -"

""I knew it. Don't. Do that. To yourself. Harry - I mean it."

"All right," he said softly, to mollify her. "All right, Hermione."

She closed her eyes and for a moment he thought she'd lapsed back into sleep, but then she spoke again, without opening them.

"She's gone, isn't she?"

"She? What are... oh. _Oh_." He paused for a moment, debating. It seemed so deeply, deeply wrong that he should be the one to deliver this news. Not his place. But then again, if not his, whose? At the moment, who else _was _there?

Plus, it was patently clear that all he'd be doing was confirming something that she already knew. He could hear it in her voice; see it written plainly across her pale, drawn, grief-ravaged face. Oh, she knew. She knew.

He took a deep breath. Squeezed her hand hard. Said, "yeah, Hermione. She's gone."

She sucked in a tiny, hitching, wounded breath at his words, and then the tears began to flow. She wasn't sobbing - she wasn't really even crying. They were just escaping, slowly, steadily, from beneath the closed lids of her eyes to seep through her hair and into her pillow, soaking it.

"I'm sorry," he said raggedly. Without letting go of her hand, he slid from the chair to his knees beside her bed, bringing his face so close to hers that their foreheads clunked together and he could feel the feverish heat she was putting off. With his other hand he stroked the tangled hair out of her face, then wiped her tears away with his thumb. "I can't even imagine... I'm so sorry, Hermione. So sorry."

She managed a small, jerky sort of nod, never raising her head from the pillow. Squeezed his hand back, with a strength that surprised him. "I know," was all she said. "I know."

They stayed like that for several long moments, then she drew in a steadying breath and opened her eyes again. The awareness behind those dark eyes was fading, though - Harry could tell that this time, sleep really _was_ reclaiming her.

"You need to rest now," he murmured, still absently stroking her hair. "Stop fighting it, all right?"

"...'Kay." She barely more than breathed the word. But then, with typical stubbornness, "First tell me... Seth and Ronnelle... are they -"

"Resting. Like you should be."

"And Draco? Where...?"

"Right there." Harry shifted position, allowing Hermione to see, for the first time, beyond him to the room's second bed, and its occupant. Snape was crashed out in a chair on the far side of Draco's bed, so physically and emotionally exhausted that he was closer, at this point, to unconsciousness than to sleep.

"They never took you out," Harry said. "Just magicked another bed into his room. They weren't too keen on it in the beginning, but Severus and Gin and I, we all insisted. Bad things seem to happen when the two of you are... separated in hospital."

Hermione managed to lift her head perhaps a whole inch off the pillow and narrowed her eyes, trying to bring her husband into focus, but to no avail. Though only a few feet separated them, to her Draco was no more than a silver-haired blur, and then her strength gave out and she let her head fall back. Her eyes were dragging themselves shut now, despite her best efforts to resist.

"So he's alive?" she whispered. "I was right, and he's alive?"

"He's... I..." _Shit_. Harry pressed his green eyes shut for a second, reached up to massage his temple with his fingertips. How the hell did he _put_ this? There was no easy answer. The fact was, nobody _knew_. And he had too much respect for his lifelong friend to just feed her some placating lie. He hadn't lied about the miscarriage; he wouldn't lie about this.

Hermione was in no condition to advocate for herself right now, but he knew her well enough to know that given a choice, she would _always_ want the truth.

And after everything she'd been through, she _deserved_ the truth, as well.

He raked a hand through his hair; tried again.

"He's not dead. Exactly. But he doesn't exactly seem to be alive either, Hermione. It's... there have been mediwizards parading in and out of here for hours, one after _another_, they're... hospital staff must've put out some kind of bulletin because they're apparating in from all over the _world_. And not one of them has ever seen anything like it before. Nobody knows what to make of it. They're saying now that it must be related somehow to his... unique signature of magic. The things he can do that no one else can. They're saying that... that it's a first, it's a_ phenomenon_. He seems to be in some kind of... of _stasis_, but... but no one knows." He sighed unhappily and shook his head. "The short answer is, no one knows."

She shook her head too, where it lay against the pillow; barely, but she did. Mirroring his gesture almost perfectly, for all that her eyes were well and truly closed by now.

"Not true," she whispered, and he had lean in close - _very_ close - to make out her words, they were so faint. "_I_ know. He's coming back. I know it, Harry. I _know_ it."

He opened his mouth to answer, but almost immediately her breathing deepened, evened out, and he realized she was asleep again.

He stayed exactly as he was for a long moment, enough time for her slumber to really take hold, not wanting to wake her when he pulled away. Then, very carefully, very gently, he disengaged. Standing, he pulled her covers right up to her chin, and stroked his hand through her tumultuous hair one more time, smoothing it down as best he could. Dropped a brief kiss on her temple. Then he turned and crossed the room to where Draco lay.

"I don't know where you are, Malfoy," he said, staring down, hard, at the still, ashen form on the bed, "and I don't know whether you can hear me. But I do know this - she's been through enough already. Enough, by God. And still she believes in you. So you get your arse back here - don't you dare let her down." He bent, planting a hand on either side of Draco's head, bringing their faces so close together that his next words were spoken directly into the other man's ear.

"Do _not_ let her down. Goddamnit, Malfoy. _Come. Back_."

OOOOO

Draco found it mildly, wryly ironic that the light should appear immediately after he'd decided, for good and all, to give himself over to the darkness.

It just went to prove that nothing could _ever_ be easy for him.

Not in life. Not in death. Not even in the void Between.

Not for him.

Never.

The light was no more than a pinprick at first, far, far off in the sea of darkness. Draco, who'd been lying spread-eagled on his back, but feeling as if he were floating in nothing, _becoming_ nothing, turned his head slowly toward that distant spark. He blinked; blinked again; narrowed his eyes; managed to lift his head perhaps an entire inch off the ground before allowing it to thud back down again.

This was... an unexpected development.

And he wasn't at all sure how he felt about it.

He'd made a decision. He'd been at _peace_ with that decision. And now...

Well, and now _what?_

That was the question.

But the light was getting closer, and since there was nothing else in the vicinity vying for his attention, and since he wasn't exactly in a position to be going anywhere himself, he simply lay where he was... and watched its approach.

It seemed to take a very long time... but then again, time itself seemed to be... _flexible_ where he was.

Or... where he wasn't.

Or was, but was _becoming_ wasn't.

Wait... _what? _His thoughts were scattering again; flying away.

And yet... this time his consciousness didn't go skittering after them.

Strange... why was _that?_

Oh, yeah; the light. It was... _anchoring_ him, somehow. He wasn't sure how he knew that, but...

He knew.

Interesting.

_So that's what light looks like... yes, I remember now..._

It was right around then that the spark resolved itself into a person.

A distinctly female person, even though the distance between them was still such that he couldn't make out her features as yet.

_Hermione?_

He still couldn't recall exactly who or what Hermione was, but he understood that she was deeply, fundamentally, _profoundly_ important to him.

After all, her name had been running ceaselessly through his head since... well, since forever. Since the dawn of time. Because that's how long he'd been here, right?

_Could_ it be Hermione walking toward him? And what if it was?

_Then_ what?

There was a part of him that longed to see her more than he thought he'd ever longed for anything in his life... and another part of him that absolutely _dreaded_ it. That knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that meeting Hermione in this place would be a _Very, Very Bad Thing_.

A goddamn, bloody catastrophe.

He couldn't remember how he knew that, but he knew it all right. A cold, sick fear settled into him.

_Don't be Hermione. Don't, please don't. She isn't meant to be here, this place is for me, not her, for God's sake, please don't..._

He couldn't remember why he was so sure that he belonged here and Hermione didn't... but he thought it had to do with just desserts. He had earned this place, somehow.

She hadn't.

Ridden with anxiety now, he tried to lever himself up onto his elbows... but it was a futile effort. Having begun the process of melting into the nothingness all around him, he no longer possessed the necessary strength or coordination.

There was nothing he could do except watch as the shining figure closed the distance between them... and pray to a God that he couldn't remember if he'd ever even _believed_ in, that the person who was approaching was _not_, in fact, the one person in all of creation that he most desperately wanted to see.

OOOOO

Further irony could be found in the fact that, once the shining figure had drawn close enough for him to - theoretically, at rate - be able to recognize her, the radiance became too much for Draco and he had to slam his eyes shut, and turn his head the other way for good measure.

Already halfway merged with the black nothing all around him, he found that in this state, bright light was not his friend. Grimacing, he flung one arm over his face - a motion that required nearly Herculean effort - in order to further shield his eyes..

He sensed when she knelt beside him, and he spoke first.

"I'm sorry." His voice was a rusty croak. "I can't look. S'too bright."

"I don't think I can dim it." The voice that replied was warm, lilting, and absolutely beautiful. It was not Hermione's voice - he knew that instantly, on a bone-deep level, and would have been hard-pressed to say which he felt more strongly; disappointment or relief - and yet, it _was_ a voice that he knew.

Or at least, that he knew he _should_ know.

And it was a voice that he loved, loved from a place deep in his heart; felt as if he'd loved forever.

Couldn't place it, though, no matter how he tried.

She was speaking again.

"No, I can't dim it. But maybe... here, let me try something else."

The hand that caught his wrist then was small but sure. Strong, too, as evidenced by the fact that she had no difficulty whatsoever in prying his arm away from his face, despite the fact that he resisted to the best of his ability. The sheer magnitude of light that was flooding over him was simply too much for him to take. Teeth clenched, breathing in shallow bursts, he had his eyes shut as tightly as he could and it was still too much, too much, too _much_ -

_Did light always _hurt_ like this? God, no more, no MORE -_

Then there were fingertips, cool and steady, being pressed to his closed eyes one at a time as her other hand held his arm immobile, down against his side, and she was whispering something, words he couldn't make out...

And then it was over. The blinding, glaring, painful light subsiding, thank God, thank God, oh thank _God_.

"Wha... whadid you do?" he rasped out, not quite daring to open his eyes just yet.

"I can't control the amount of energy I'm putting off, but I can control your... receptiveness to it."

"How?"

"I don't really know. I just felt as if I probably could, so I tried it. I seem to be able to do quite a lot here. I found you, after all. From what I understand about this place, it's no easy thing to find someone whose light has gone out. And yet... here we are. It really should be okay now - you can open your eyes."

Steeling himself against the potential for agonizing pain, he prised open first one eye, and then the other; struggled for a long moment to focus; narrowed them as the face above him blurred, shimmered, and then finally resolved itself into recognizability.

She was smiling down at him, looking more than a little pleased with herself... and then his heart was exploding inside of him with panic and grief because the fog that had been clouding his mind was gone, instantly and completely -

And comprehension slammed into him of just how wrong, how totally, heinously, appallingly _wrong_ it was to see her here, worse even than if it _had_ been Hermione, just _completely_ unacceptable, he _could not cope _with this; and he was screaming, screaming, his voice cracked and raw and broken -

"No, God, NO, get _out_ of here, go back, you have to _go BACK_, oh please no, Ronnelle, not you, not _YOU, NO!_"

OOOOO

Her silver brows drew together in consternation; a devastatingly Hermione-like expression. "I'm not Ronnelle -"

"Of course you're Ronnelle!" Draco was beside himself. "Go back, sweetheart, you have to go _BACK!_"

"No. _No!_ Dad, stop, you don't -" She broke off, shook her head. "I've really messed this up." Then she leaned close over him, placing her hands on his shoulders and pressing him down because he'd been trying, frantically, to struggle into a sitting position.

"Don't waste your energy this way," she said urgently, "_please _don't, you've little enough left as it is, and you'll need it. Just _listen_ to me - I'm not Ronnelle! I thought it would be easier for you if I appeared familiar, recognizable - apparently I misjudged. I'm _sorry_. I'm not _Ronnelle_, Dad. My name is Sophia."

"No." His voice was a hoarse rasp. "You're confused somehow. Oh my God, will you please just go _back_ -"

"Dad -"

"Ronnelle! Go back!"

"Oh, this is going all wrong." She looked completely at a loss. "Look, I _am_ your daughter, but -"

"But nothing, I only have one daughter! Ronnelle, for -"

"Living." She spoke the word quietly, but still it halted him in his tracks.

"_What?_"

"You only have one daughter, _living_. It was a mistake to take Ronnelle's appearance, I see that now. Here, wait a second..."

She furrowed her brow again, in concentration this time. Seemed for a moment to shimmer, as if he were looking up at her from underwater or through some massively intense sort of heat-haze. Then she resolved again, and now her similarity to Ronnelle, though still there, was far less pronounced. It lingered only in the angles of her face, the set of her eyes, her expressive mouth. Really, the girl he was looking at now was far closer to being a carbon copy of Hermione - closer even than Seth, who'd inherited his mother's coloring almost exactly.

She could very nearly have passed for the teenaged Hermione he'd previously encountered in this God-forsaken place. Almost, but not quite. There were traces of him in there, too.

And still he didn't quite understand.

"There," she said, with a trace of satisfaction. "I like this better anyway. Not that Ronnelle isn't pretty - she's beautiful. It's just that she's not... _me_."

The wheels in his head were turning now, and he found that he _did not like _the direction they were taking.

"I don't -"

"Yes, you do," she said matter-of-factly, and in that moment she _sounded_ uncannily like Hermione too. She had never actually, he realized belatedly, sounded very much like Ronnelle at all. "You do, or at least, you're starting to. I can see it in your face. "I'm Sophia, dad. It's Greek for Wisdom. Mum named me - she's chosen it already, that's how I know."

And it was coming; full realization was coming, bearing down on him with all the speed and force of the Hogwarts Express at full throttle, and he was still trying to fight it off because it was too awful, to hideously cruel to accept, to even _contemplate_ - but it was a losing battle.

"You can't be," he croaked, but she was. She _was_, and even as he spoke he was reaching for her, despite the fact that he was so weak his limbs would barely obey him - wanting to touch her, to feel the shape of her face that was so very like her mother's.

Because he was looking at the child that Hermione had lost - the child that would have been.


End file.
